Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander

Additional Tags:

Inspired by the Before Trilogy (Movies - Linklater), Paris (City), Episode: s01e02 Olympians (Heated Rivalry), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, POV Shane Hollander, POV Ilya Rozanov, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Shane Hollander Speaks French, Shane Hollander Needs a Hug, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov Needs A Hug, Mutual Pining, Talking About Feelings, Emotional Intimacy, Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, Slow Burn, Eventual Smut, Very Mild Exhibitionism, Shane Hollander Has Panic Attacks

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-05-01 Completed: 2026-08-21 Words: 75,690 Chapters: 13/13

moon chasers

Summary

One side of his brain is going: this is insane, don't do this, just stay in this room, what can he do? Whether you like it or not, he's hurt you, and chances are you've hurt him too, because you can't read a situation for shit, so what are we trying to do here? Get some fucking sleep instead.

The other side of his brain is going: He's hurt you, and you've probably hurt him too, and what if this is your only chance to talk about it? What if Paris makes the difference?

Five months after Sochi, Shane's set to play a charity hockey game in Paris. So is Ilya.

They run into each other in the lobby of their hotel the night before. Twelve hours stretch out in front of them, and Ilya suggests something different: no phones, no expectations, no past, no hockey. Just the city, and whatever they can be when nobody else is watching.

It's obviously a terrible idea, but Shane says yes, anyway.

Notes

hi, i'm so happy you're here! i hope you come on this adventure with me. ♥

this fic is loosely inspired by the Before trilogy, but you really don't need to watch it in order to read this at all, i promise. tags will be updated as we go, but you don't have to worry about anything drastic.

canon divergent after sochi -- las vegas never happens here.

thank you to Nizey (@nizey_ on threads) for giving this first chapter a read when I started doubting my ability to string a sentence together,
& huge thank you to Sharon (@sharon19182), Eevie (itsme_eevie) and Sophie (@phonequeen2) for agreeing to help me with all the Québécois and French!
I can't believe how nice people are. ♥

note on the setting 🥐

Paris, huh! I'm not Parisian, and I don't aim to portray it in a lived-in way. I've been lucky enough to visit Paris many times as a tourist, and I want to portray it in that way, because Shane and Ilya are tourists here, too. while I'll keep making up places and pit stops to a minimum, I know for a fact that sometimes I'll magic a pastry shop where there isn't one, or a neon sign you wouldn't find, and so on, and I hope you'll forgive me for that. :)

okay, i'll let you read now!

Chapter 1: 6PM

Chapter Notes

Hours stretch ahead of Paris before sunset colors its skyline like a bruise. Right now, the rooftops bathe in stark daylight, and people scatter from shade to shade like rats or wipe sweat off the brow on their routine walks from work. The Eiffel Tower sits above them like a strict overseer. She, too, has to wait for bright lights to coat her on the summer background of pink and blue.

Shane Hollander, of course, sees none of this.

Surrounded by the four walls of a hotel room, he could easily believe he was on a roadie back in the US. Judging by the dull ache in his body, they'd be at around game three out of five. It's just jet lag, he tells himself, jet lag or the fact that he's been feeling this way for months.

At least he's been put in a good hotel. Paris Marriott Rive Gauche smells and looks nicer. Something about the detergent, maybe; it's got a fresher scent, and it evidently bleaches the sheets until they're rough to the touch but a blinding, just-bought shade of white.

Unfortunately, it doesn't do any wonders for Shane's mind, anyway.

He feels, often, that he's left a piece of himself back in Sochi. Five long months ago, he carried home an Olympic gold medal and it still felt lighter than whatever was carved out of him there. It wasn't a physical wound, which only made it more difficult to sew himself around it; and it wasn't so explicable, either. His body remembers the cardboard beds regardless. Long live the Olympic village and his Canadian jersey; may the rest go to fucking hell.

Except it won't. Shane knows better than that after all those weeks that have been passing him by.

Still, even now, he checks his phone out of habit. No new notifications stare back at him — except the unopened Welcome to France! text — and he's got enough of a grip on himself that he doesn't go looking further.

Doesn't open his messages, doesn't scroll until his eyes catch on Lily, doesn't let himself read his own failed attempt to reach out for the millionth time, Hey! U doing ok?, who says that—anyway, Shane doesn't do any of those things. He's better than that.

What he's not better than is entertaining the thought of Ilya Rozanov in this same hotel. Maybe a floor up, or perhaps a floor down, but technically sharing space.

For the first time since Sochi.

And it's not that they're anything, or ever have been. That's been made abundantly clear time and again over the course of the last few years.

God, Shane should have left feelings behind in Sochi instead of his dignity.

It's just that he doesn't like rejection.

It's just that he doesn't like being turned away after letting himself be seen, especially in a different way than normal. There is rarely any use in being something other than Shane Hollander and his Olympic-winning hockey or his money-making face. He's so used to being hyphenated—Olympic-winning, money-making, high-achieving, record-breaking, Japanese-Canadian.

To be just Shane Hollander and then called nothing cuts too deep, and fuck, okay, he needs to stop thinking about this.

Mossy green curtains are plunging the hotel room into darkness, even this early. Shane gets off the bed and scurries towards the window to peek out. He mostly sees greenery and the sun jumping across tree leaves. Cars down below drive past in a white-black-blue-red blur. Everything seems so alive out there, and here Shane is, wrapped up in his own head like a mummy.

He knows it's bad when his thought process slims down to, I wish my parents were here.

They would drag him out of this hotel room for a fancy dinner. One glass of wine in, his father would start musing about going to the Roland-Garros one day. The staff would think his mother was a local at first glance, because how could she not be, what with her charm and style?

Still not a justifiable thought to have in a foreign city at twenty-three.

With a sigh, Shane changes into a set of dark-blue pants and throws on a white polo shirt with vertical stripes. The blue-beige-black combo seems a bit on the nose, but it's the best he's got if he doesn't want to look like he's about to hit the gym. He will be doing that later, obviously, and then tomorrow morning before practice, but he can be sociable. He can be normal. He can go down to the lobby, find the hotel bar, and nurse something non-alcoholic for a bit. Appearances and all.

Hell, he'll even chat to somebody about the upcoming exhibition game and nod his head obligingly when the other person says, At least you won't have to go far for the gala after, it's right here! Ha-ha! He will laugh, too, even if it sounds like the most horrible joke.

Shane is still thankful when he's alone in the elevator.

Pointedly, he avoids looking in the mirror and scrutinizing himself.

Exiting into the lobby, Shane grits his teeth through instant regret. The room is a beehive full of buzzing people. He will have to make it through groups chatting idly, and he notices a few more hockey players gathered around the reception area.

Disappear into the crowd, he tells himself as he swiftly steps away from the LIFTS - ASCENSEURS sign above his head. Looking downward, he angles his body left and right like he would on the ice in order to get across, where the barstools are.

Really, Shane shouldn't be surprised. It's a hotel and a conference center for a reason—it could hardly be quiet and vacant.

"Bonsoir," he says quietly when he takes the leftmost barstool. Chances are nobody even heard him, and that's just as well.

"Bonsoir," the Black middle-aged bartender with silver threading through his hair replies, bursting Shane's bubble. His name tag says Jérôme. "J'arrive tout de suite, monsieur."

Shane nods in response.

One would think that he'd find it easy to be here, huh? Mr. Star Center of Montreal shouldn't be so scared to speak his perfect French, should he?

While the bartender mixes an expensive-looking cocktail for someone down the bar, Shane wonders if this was a good idea at all. He's done a few charity and exhibition games, but none of them took him very far from Canada. There was one game during his rookie year right in Montreal; Shane had a grand total of seven minutes of ice time, but he remembers they were raising money to donate to food banks. A few years later, he Captained a horrible five-hour exhibition game to fund the rebuilding of a school complex in Ottawa, and there was also that one game in New York and he can't even remember what that one was for.

This one, in Paris of all places—it's not even a hockey country!—is donating all profits to cancer research.

Is this cause important to you, Mr. Hollander? reporters asked when the roster was announced.

Being a normal decent human being is important to me, yeah, he wanted to say but never did. He ended up disclosing private information instead. That is seldom the lesser of two evils, but he figured it was safer to talk about losing his grandma to breast cancer when he was five, rather than say what he was really thinking.

"Vous avez choisi?" Jérôme asks. By the look of him, it's probably his second attempt.

Shane rolls his shoulders. "Do you have anything non-alcoholic? Like ginger ale or just… sparkling water?"

The man gives him a short smile. "One sparkling water coming right up, Mr. Hollander."

Is it possible to sink into a barstool? Shane attempts it for sure, having been clocked for who he is and for speaking English.

Maybe—no, scratch that, certainly, this was a bad idea. The incessant insectile chatter behind him and the jazz music trying to fight its way through it are both driving him mad. Shane's happy to have picked out the leftmost chair; at least he can look to the side and out through the glass, at the street. When he looked up the hotel on Tripadvisor, a reviewer called it a nothing neighbourhood. Looking out into it, though, it only makes Shane want to get there, take a walk, let the trees shade him, stroll under the small nearby bridge, pretend he's somebody else.

A body slides into the barstool next to Shane's at the same time as Jérôme places a cold glass bottle in front of him. He pops it open, pouring its contents into a wide glass.

And Shane knows who's sitting next to him.

His body knows before his eyes do. Familiar cologne wafts up through his nose, and he involuntarily drags it in. Blood drains from his face when the scent hits his brain. The weight next to Shane is familiar, too, and his ears recognize the amused snicker.

No. It can't be happening this early.

"Water in Paris, Hollander?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Shane lets himself look. Rozanov is wearing an old band t-shirt that is so worn that the logo is indiscernible. Shane wouldn't even wear it around the house, but it looks chic on him. His hair, usually styled and coiffed, curls around his head freely. He and the mole on his cheek are looking positively dreamy and Shane hates it.

He hates it so fucking much.

Shane clears his throat. His fingers clench around his glass like he's squeezing the throat of his own anxiety and trying to choke it out.

Ultimately, he doesn't give Rozanov an answer.

"Hm. Okay," Rozanov mumbles to himself. He orders a beer and leans back in his chair and Shane really needs to stop looking.

But when has he ever been able to do that? He takes a small sip. The water is cold as ice.

"You have gotten more boring," Rozanov tries again. "I didn't know that was possible."

Shane puts his glass back down harder than he intended. A few eyes dart towards him at the loud clink. "Did you sit down here just to make fun of me?" he snaps. "Or what is it that you want, Rozanov?"

Some crossed lines are hard to navigate. To this day, Shane isn't sure which one of them committed the crime of crossing theirs. It could have been him, standing atop the bleachers in Sochi and demanding attention; it could have been Rozanov, standing atop the bleachers in Sochi and refusing to give it. That crossed line seems to have closed around them and burned into the ground like a parasitic circle they can't walk out of—even if it feels like they're each alone. Shane feels alone, at least.

Ilya's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. It's hard to feel any satisfaction at it, though—not with his curls hooking over them now, falling down in curved threads and almost into his eyes.

"If you keep going like that," Rozanov quips in the end, quickly shifting his face back into an unreadable facade, "I will take calling you boring back. You will only be a little boring."

But Shane is done playing cat and mouse, especially because he finds himself playing the mouse more often than not. Lips pursed, almost like he'd actually say something or maybe spit in Ilya's face otherwise, he pushes his glass away and makes to stand up.

"Hollander," Rozanov hisses. "Stop. I will be good."

Shane can feel his jaw working overtime. Out of fear that Rozanov will resort to touching his arm—or so he tells himself—he lets his body fall back into the barstool. It wouldn't be good to have a public fight, anyway. This is different than an NHL game; they might still be playing against each other tomorrow, but it's for something that shouldn't be tainted by… whatever this is.

Silence nests into the space between them. Voices start drifting in again; Shane catches phrases, light laughs, distant flirting from the other side of the bar. He lets his eyes follow it, landing on a pair. He sees a man, white and lean, sitting at a respectable distance from a woman of Asian descent; despite the distance, their torsos keep inching closer, like they already have an inside joke they're about to laugh at.

Next to Shane, Ilya looks in the same direction.

Shane's eyes nervously dart to him. The curls at Ilya's nape are damp with sweat even though the AC here is significant. And he's holding the slopes of his shoulders tensely, almost as if he was expecting to see the NHL Commissioner rounding the bar.

Some crossed lines are hard to navigate; some lines are hard to cross. To Shane, it's impossible to entertain that the sweat, and the tension, and the quick hiss could have anything to do with him. Impossible; he discards it.

He takes another sip, and his fingers come away wet as the water slowly warms. Before he remembers that he's not wearing black athleisure, he wipes them off on his pants, undoubtedly leaving a dark stain.

"I was wrong, before," Ilya says all of a sudden.

Shane's face contorts into a question mark when he looks to the side. He can't even begin to unwrap the meaning of before. Before what, before when, before where?

"You're different."

"Sure," Shane mumbles around a sigh. Despite knowing better, his hand goes back around the glass. For a moment, he presses his fingertips against the condensation and slowly peels them away one by one. He likes the sensation; so sue him. It's oddly calming, the way the drops of water stick to his fingers before breaking apart and rolling down the glass.

"Is it because Paris?" Ilya nags. "You've been here before?"

Shane scoffs. "What are you, a reporter?"

It makes Ilya say something under his breath. Something in Russian that Shane doesn't understand. The only thing he catches is a soft consonant hiding in the middle. It sounds the same as when the Russian telecasters said Ilya's name, back in Sochi—not that Shane watched the news, not that he was switching to the local channels, no, none of that.

The worst thing is, though, that Ilya is looking away.

"Sorry," Shane offers. He can't explain why. "You're not usually trying to actually talk to me."

When Ilya looks back, he does so with a scowl. "Not true," he argues like a petulant child.

Over his shoulder, Shane catches another glimpse of the couple; his hand is on hers, and his thumb is tracing the line of her wristbone.

"It is true." What he can't say out loud—talking about fucking and meeting in hotel rooms and bragging about dick size are not real conversations—lingers in the air.

In the end, Ilya shrugs and takes a healthy swig of his beer. "Maybe is true," he concedes. "I still asked a question. Don't be rude, Hollander."

"I'm not—" Shane stops himself. Counts five, four, three, two, one and forces himself to relax. This is what he's wanted, isn't it? To have Rozanov's attention beyond those hotel rooms; to be faced somewhere that isn't a bed. "I've been to Paris a few times with my parents."

Ilya purses his lips and takes another gulp, but he refrains from calling Shane boring again.

As if calmed, Shane feels his body loosen up. Sometimes he exists in a fight-or-flight limbo, and he wishes he could blame it on Rozanov's presence, but really, it's something that's been true his whole life. Started all the way in kindergarten, probably.

"What about you?" he asks, because no, he isn't rude. "Have you ever been?"

"To Paris?" Ilya shakes his head. "No. Is my first time."

"You probably shouldn't be spending it in a hotel lobby, then. Plenty of sights to see."

Rozanov hums. It's a familiar sound that Shane associates with body-meeting-body, and his attention snaps to it immediately.

This time, when he looks to the side, their eyes meet. Rozanov is gazing at him like Shane is a sight to see, and Shane can't be held responsible for the way he's gazing back. They're just looking at each other and it still feels like an invisible battery at the back of Shane's mind has finally been charged.

Shane could almost detest the quiet sparks between them, if only they didn't make him feel so… alive. Not alive with feeling, alive like… like when he scratches an annoying itch, or hears a word he likes. It's akin to satisfaction, or a small dose of endorphins being released across the hot wire that's his body.

The link is broken by the sound of barstools scraping.

Both Shane and Ilya look in that direction; it's the couple, getting up and leaving together. They're not holding hands, but their shoulders brush with every step. Twenty minutes into their meeting and they seemingly can't stand the idea of distance anymore.

Ilya turns his head back. "We have, what, twelve hours before busy schedule starts?"

Unable to hide his confusion, Shane frowns. "Yeah, something like that, I guess?"

Like a co-conspirator, Ilya turns his entire body towards Shane. "Spend them with me," he says.

"What? Like—"

Like in your hotel room, or maybe in mine? So you can have me—so I can willingly give you whatever it is you want, just to leave me hanging again, just to ignore me, just to call me boring when I want to kiss you in the morning? Just to run away, just to let me do the same? Like acting that this is a rodie, and this is any and all the hotels we've checked into, and you know I will say yes? Like—

"Come see the sights with me," Ilya continues, cutting off the rambling string of thoughts spanning the whole inside of Shane's head. "Leave our phones here. Get out of here, da? Twelve hours, out in Paris."

Shane laughs. "You're insane."

"Why? Is a good idea. We can do whatever. Ignore the hotel, ignore sleep. Ignore Hollander, ignore Rozanov. I will do it anyway. Come with me."

It's a taunt. It must be. Or a test, to prove that Shane is boring, hates adventure, doesn't like the outside world. Mockery is an option, too, on this long-running list of reasons why. And it has to be one of them.

Because if it's not, then—then Rozanov is asking for something that Shane finds much more difficult to give. Sure, there is only one requirement, but it's possibly the biggest requirement Shane's had to face. It's directly asking him to forgo routine; to strip himself of the identity he clings so desperately to; to do all of this next to Rozanov.

It would be easier if we just went to a hotel room, Shane thinks. His, or maybe mine.

He opens his mouth to reply. Though he's not sure what his answer is going to be, on the list is another iteration of You're insane, but also No fucking way, Rozanov, and a quiet but resolute No would do the job, too.

"We can't just leave our phones here," is what ultimately trips out of his mouth.

The light in Rozanov's eyes is undeniable.

When they're on the ice, during a face-off, and Rozanov chirps, this is the look on his face. It settles there when he knows he's rattled Shane; when he knows the likelihood of winning the face-off has just grown exponentially. Always accompanied by a smirk, that look of his—except now. It's just in his eyes, the thrill of half-success.

"Why not? You are waiting for an important call?"

Clearing his throat, Shane drinks. Chugs half the glass down. "No."

"So? We can leave phones here, then, yes?"

"Yeah, and if something happens? How are you going to call someone?"

Ilya rolls his eyes with a grunt. "Then you open your mouth and speak your perfect French."

Shane bristles. "For your information, some French people would probably switch to English if they heard my accent, because Québécois sounds much different from—"

Ilya tsks and waves his hand. "Hollander, fuck your phone. Is not important. Nothing is going to happen, we'll be fine."

Stubbornly, Shane shakes his head. "You don't know that."

Losing his phone—even if metaphorically, it would be resting on his nightstand the whole time, obviously—is uncomfortable. There are too many variations to what could happen outside. They could get recognized; they might need to call a cab quickly. One of them could get hurt; Shane wouldn't be surprised if Rozanov decided to, like, sled down the stairs from Sacre Coeur on a trashcan lid or something. Then what?

"Nobody knows anything, ever," Rozanov argues.

And it is tempting to believe it.

Incredibly tempting to forget that most of the time, Shane knows everything—or at least as much as he can. How he relies on his knowledge of every minute of every day, how he survives because he knows exactly what 6 p.m. means and how it will bridge him over to 7 p.m., and so on and so on.

Shane feels himself stuck somehow, like he's suspended in the air by invisible hands. What if he didn't have that knowledge?

What if he let time shake him, from hour to hour and place to place?

He sighs. "What would we even do for so long? Walk in silence?"

Now Rozanov smirks, and the look is complete. "We could talk."

It rattles something inside Shane loose. He can't know what talking entails, but he gets the idea that maybe it wouldn't be a twelve-hour conversation about hockey. That maybe they could talk about more, especially if they want to walk out of here and forget who they are.

"If you want to forget about Hollander and Rozanov, what should I call you?" he asks. Holds his breath.

Ilya tenses again. The way he drinks his beer is not unlike the way Shane chugged his water moments ago, like he's giving himself time to gather up the courage.

Then he sizes Shane up. "Okey, let's start the game now. My name is Ilya. What's your name?"

Shane blinks. Rozanov's first name—and the way he said it—runs across Shane's mind, right to left, and he can feel it. It buzzes and paralyzes him for a second; it draws a physical reaction out of him, making him shiver.

"Shane," he says breathlessly. "I'm— Shane."

"Do you want to get out of here, Shane?"

He feels himself nodding. There are still a few sips of his stupid sparkling water left, but his plan to sit here, be sociable, and then hit the gym while everybody else has dinner has flown out the window.

"Let me quickly run up to my room to grab a… a hoodie or something. And to leave my phone there?"

"Same," Ilya agrees. "See you at reception in ten minutes?"

"That — yeah, that works."

They pay quickly and hop off the barstools. Shane is barely aware of his frantic heartbeat—it only registers because it stops, misses a beat, goes thump-thump— thump instead of thump-thump-thump as Ilya touches his wrist. The very thing Shane was so afraid of happening. And it doesn't kill him, it doesn't wound him—it merely reminds him that he's alive. Holy shit, what is he doing?

"Don't change your mind," Ilya tells him. His voice sounds different. Even though he's putting it as a demand, there's a shade of pleading to it, which is just another thing Shane can't bring himself to believe.

"No," he says. "I won't. I'll be there in ten minutes. Ilya.

"Okay. I will see you in ten minutes, Shane."

Is there still a hint of disbelief when Ilya says it? Yeah, maybe. Shane can't blame him; he can barely believe it himself, that he agreed, that he's about to walk out of this hotel and not return for twelve hours, that he's doing this, that Rozanov—that Ilya—

In his room, Shane is out of breath even though he took the elevator up. Part of his brain is questioning this. Like, why is he so prone to saying yes when Rozanov asks? And it goes all the way back, doesn't it, to those showers, to Ilya in a towel so loose and low around his hips, asking for Shane's room number, and Shane giving it, saying I might open even though it had been decided at that point that he always would; it goes back to that hotel room and frantic outfit changes, and sitting so still in that creaky hotel chair in the hopes it would settle his insides.

Here Shane is again. A different hotel room, a very different city.

"Stop freaking out," he tells himself. "You've literally seen each other naked."

Except seeing each other naked has always been easier than seeing each other clothed and out in daylight when it comes to them. Hasn't it?

Shane stops himself from changing. Yes, he still thinks the polo shirt is unlike him, but it looks fine. He tells himself it looks fine at least twenty times.

The only hoodie he's got is the black Reebok one; at least the logo is small, at the breast, and not slotted across his chest in big blocky letters. He hangs it over his arm. His pants are fine, and his sneakers are worn in; comfy. Should be fine even if they walk around the whole night.

The whole night.

Right before a very public, very media-heavy charity game.

Jesus Christ.

At the last second—Shane is almost out the door—he remembers to leave his phone behind. The Welcome to France! text still sits unopened, and Shane leaves it that way. Places it on the nightstand, right next to the Moleskine with his hockey notes jotted down in neat handwriting.

Shane fixes his hair, just a little bit.

One side of his brain is going: this is insane, don't do this, just stay in this room, what can he do? Whether you like it or not, he's hurt you, and chances are you've hurt him too because you can't read a situation for shit, so what are we trying to do here? Get some fucking sleep instead.

The other side of his brain is going: He's hurt you, and you've probably hurt him too, and what if this is your only chance to talk about it? What if Paris makes the difference?

Shane walks out on both.

Although he's two minutes early, Ilya is already at the reception desk. Leaning against it, one hip jutting out, and Shane knows exactly where he'd touch it so it would feel like gravity no longer works and he's holding on to it to stay on Earth. He hasn't changed his outfit, either.

Shane's hands are clammy on approach, so he hides them in his pockets. When Ilya stands up and straightens up, the one- to two-inch difference between them feels monumental. He finds himself looking up, but the thing is that Ilya seems to be doing the same.

"Ready to go?" Ilya asks, quietly, so nobody overhears.

"Yes," Shane breathes out. "Where are we going?"

"I don't know, but somebody said there's plenty of sights to see. I'm sure we will run into them."

Oh, okay, so no plan at all. That's fine.

"I'm sure," Shane responds, even though he's nervous and that nervousness is sitting at the back of his throat like a rose bud ready to open and prevent him from breathing.

"Let's go," Ilya decides.

Shane can't do anything but follow.

The digital clock above the reception desk reads 18:57. Almost 7 p.m. then, not that Shane's body has acclimatized to the different timezone.

Either way, twelve hours stretch ahead of them when Shane and Ilya walk out of Paris Marriott Rive Gauche, together.

Chapter End Notes

thank you for reading! it's always so scary to start posting something new, please do let me know if you liked it via kudos and comments! ♥

starting with the next chapter, i'll be tracing where they go on a map that you'll be able to look at and see where they've walked / stopped / etc :) and once I've resurrected my old laptop, I'll probably share some pictures here and there -- I was in Paris in July 2014 too and I think it might be cool to see some stuff from that exact time. lemme know if you're interested?

come hang out with me on threads or on tumblr! i'd love to see you there. ♥

Chapter 2: 7PM

Chapter Notes

the adventure begins! happy reading ♥

Stepping outside of the hotel feels like willingly sitting down on the world's hottest baking sheet and being shoved into an oven. Even though it's past seven in the evening, the temperature is far from dropping below thirty degrees Celsius; Ilya internally thanks himself for not wearing long pants.

Shane must be dying in his.

Ilya thinks so, at least, though thinking in general is a bit of a problem right now. He can't hear his own thoughts over the rush of blood in his ears, and the tips of his fingers are tingling. Almost like his body is going into shock—not that he can blame it.

"Are we just gonna stand here?" Shane asks, unamused.

Ilya opens his mouth to say, You know how to walk, no, so start walking. Closes it. Although he wouldn't be able to explain how or why exactly he's landed them here, he can't shift the responsibility. It is his doing.

So it is up to him to look left, and to look right, and to decide. He can think and explain later.

To the right, through a throng of people, Ilya sees a corner cafe. Some—but not all—of the tables are occupied, and there is a neon-red sign up above the awning. Ilya can't see the second word, but the first one is Réveil. Generally speaking, it looks like a postcard place, but maybe there are too many people there.

Going left seems like the better option. The street unfurls across the ongoing traffic, lined with trees and continuing endlessly into a seemingly suburban area.

"This way," Ilya decides, setting an easy tempo to his steps.

"Whatever," Hollander mumbles, but falls into the same rhythm.

Ilya catches their reflection as they pass the tall glass panes of the hotel. Albeit a fleeting thought, Ilya wonders if it's his bias or if they really look strange. Not because of the difference in what they're wearing—Shane so put together in his pants and polo shirt, like a businessman on a work trip, and Ilya next to him in a shirt he's owned for a decade and black shorts that brush his knees, so touristy. Moreso because when Ilya steps with his right foot, Shane goes forward with his left, and in the reflection, it looks like they're walking side by side but not together.

Gritting his teeth, Ilya looks away. The same thing could be said about the entire time they've known each other. And he's not stupid; he knows that it is, largely, his fault.

He wonders whether Sochi lies so heavy in the pit of Shane's stomach, too. The last time they saw each other didn't go so well, and Ilya said a lot of things he wishes he could take back but never will.

He wonders, too, if that's why he wants to do this. If seeing two strangers laugh so easily, and then follow each other away from the public eye—it hurt, didn't it, to see it—is only one small part of this. What if Ilya thinks he owes them both something; what if he thinks the streets of Paris can give it to them?

They walk in silence.

Ilya told the truth; he's never been to Paris before. The greenery is not so dissimilar from Moscow; back there, there are city gardens and parks practically everywhere. The buildings are different here, though. They hug the street at their uniform height, all built in a similar style, and Ilya likes it.

Cars woosh past them, and they pass runners, dog walkers, friend groups. It's still hot out, but it's the sudden quiet between them that makes Ilya sweat the most.

This was a bad idea.

If they turned around now, they could still pretend it never even happened. They've clearly got nothing to say to each other; hockey, and the rivalry between them, is clearly the only thing keeping them in each other's life. This is ridiculous; this has no meaning.

When they arrive at a crossing, Ilya stops. Shane halts beside him. Their shoulders bump.

"Do you want to turn here?"

Ilya gnaws on the inside of his cheek. "No. I don't know. Maybe..."

"Maybe we could keep going straight," Shane cuts him off. He points to the right, at a metal post with a few direction signs hanging high up. Arrows shoot off into different streets; the one that sends them straight says Les Catacombes, white cursive on a brown background.

"Catacombs?" Ilya asks. "You want to kill me."

"No, I just thought—"

"You want to kill me and leave my body in the underground," Ilya continues resolutely. "What is one more body? The catacombs are full of them. This is your plan, Hollander."

Shane laughs, bashful eyes skirting to the side before finding Ilya's face again. "Well, no, I just think there might be more things to do or see if we go in the general direction of a tourist attraction, and my name is Shane. Not Hollander, right?"

Ilya blinks. There is a glint to Shane's eyes that he doesn't recognize. It's alarming to realize there is so much about him that Ilya has never seen. Is this excitement, or is it playfulness? All he knows is that it is positive, that Shane wants to be here, that this is a game he wishes to partake in. That this is real, and maybe it's not bad at all.

"Right," Ilya says. "Sorry. Let's go—how you said."

"Wait, you're not gonna fight me on it?"

"Do you want me to?"

"No, no, let's go."

They cross, and keep walking. When they come upon a bus stop, Shane tactically falls a step behind to join Ilya on his other, left side, further away from everyone getting on and off the large vehicle. As if any of these people cared about them; as if their eyes so much as threatened to fall in their direction.

"Are you hiding?" Ilya teases. "Are you a celebrity, Shane? Should I worry about paparazzi?"

"Sure, I guess, but if you're asking for real, I don't love crowds and that's pretty much it."

Ilya hums. "Interesting. What about hockey arenas? There are always crowds."

"But that's different," Shane explains. His hands are stubbornly shoved into his pockets, most likely covered in hot sweat. "Yeah, there's always a crowd, but I'm not part of that crowd, I'm just doing my job and if I focus, I can mostly ignore it. Concerts or big airports are a fucking nightmare."

"I love when crowd is good, and loud, and screaming. I play better."

"If you say so," Shane replies with a shrug. The teasing nature of the comment makes Ilya's stomach do a somersault.

Behind the bus stop, a large cobble-stoned square opens up like the palm of a hand. Wind blows through the open space, bending the tree branches around it and in the heart of it, where a small park-like patch sits, benches and all. They could go sit, or there's a Metro sign to the left, or they could keep walking.

"This is weird," Shane says all of a sudden. "Us talking, I mean. Isn't it?"

"Yes," Ilya agrees immediately. "But good weird, maybe."

"Yeah, maybe. Where do you want to go from here?"

It's not the reaction Ilya wanted. The glint is still there, but a little dimmer, almost like Shane is the one wavering. Like maybe reality has finally come knocking and what Ilya saw back in their reflection is now catching up with Shane. It becomes suddenly all-important that they keep doing this, and Ilya still can't explain why. The longer they walk, the farther away from the hotel they are—the less sense it all makes.

And maybe that's how it should be. Maybe they should get even farther, and once they're miles away from that hotel lobby, they'll forget to look for a reason at all.

Ilya has never existed outside of time.

People around him expect and assume the opposite. He walks through bars, he entertains flings, he gives cocky answers to serious questions, he waves inquiries into his personal life away with a flick of his wrist. He's Russian and flippant and arrogant and uncaring, and of course, he can't forget lazy—he can never forget lazy. No one would guess at his life-long dependence on time, or that his life only exists in chunks of it.

The time he spent in Russia with his family. The time he spends in Boston, during the NHL season. The time he spends in Moscow, drowning in its sweltering summer evenings.

The time his mother never had; the time his father is losing. Even now, in this moment, while Ilya desperately keeps trying to run away from it all.

It's different from the way time operates for Hollander, sure. Shane is the type of person who tries to control it, while Ilya bends underneath it like bamboo and lets it control him. Or so he would assume.

Either way, he doesn't want time. He wants these streets, and he wants to walk them not alone. In a few hours, he might admit to wanting to walk them with Shane.

Yes, they need to get farther away.

"I have a crazy idea," he announces.

Shane inhales sharply. "Again?"

"Come on, we find the Metro."

It's easier said than done—the sign is vague. Ilya expects to find an entrance right underneath it, but there is none. Apparently, it's more of a warning that there might be an entrance somewhere in the general vicinity if you look hard enough, but good luck figuring it out on your own.

"Maybe we should just take a taxi," Shane says when they've walked around this side of the square twice, pointing to yet another sign-post.

"Use your eyes to find Metro, not taxis. I believe in you." Despite that, Ilya nods towards the other side, where a few restaurants reside. "Let's try there."

The crowd thickens once they run across the cobblestones, but more people must mean that there is some sort of transportation nearby. At the corner, Ilya automatically looks to his right first.

"Holy fuck, look at that!" he exclaims. Down the street, a large lion statue dominates another open space. It looks like it's made out of black marble; imposing and regal. "I wanna look at it."

"But— But there's a Metro station right here!" Shane exclaims from behind him, undoubtedly trying to go left instead.

"So we come back. Come on, Shane. The sights!"

Shane mumbles something intelligible as he follows.

The statue grows and grows in size upon approach, and Ilya can't tear his eyes away from it. Although it has nothing to do with it, it reminds him of a statue in Moscow that his mother brought him to see when he was six, maybe seven years old. Maybe it's seeing the lion, maybe it's the memory it's sparked, but Ilya suddenly finds himself wanting to say it out loud. Wanting to say: There is a statue in Moscow that I saw with my mother, and now I'm here seeing this one and she never will.

"Happy now?" Shane asks grumpily when they walk around to look the lion in the face. "We don't even know what it's for."

"Doesn't matter," Ilya whispers. "Shane, play the game. Ask me why I wanted to see it."

There are people milling about them, but the look on Shane's face is for Ilya only. It's a mix of brows knotting together and an openness trying to fight its way out. Ilya might not understand everything, but he can tell that Shane is still operating on disbelief. The game is half-real and half-not, and whatever Ilya says is being taken with a grain of salt.

"Alright," Shane concedes in the end. "Why did you want to see the statue, Ilya?"

Ilya takes a deep breath and tries not to shiver at the sound of his name when Shane says it like he knows it. This is not Hollander, he tells himself. This is Shane.

"I love one statue in Moscow," he starts. His tongue feels heavy against his teeth. He's got many things he wants to say and no means of figuring out the best way to do so. It's still difficult to shape his mouth around English when he wants to share something that he's been carrying like a secret. He's unsure where to start; cares too much about sounding clunky, about turning every sentence into a rocky road.

"Oh, okay," Shane says, but it's not disappointed. If anything, it sounds intrigued, and Ilya can't look at him. "What statue?"

"Is a bronze statue of Pushkin and his wife, Natalya, in front of the apartment where they lived for some time."

"I didn't take you for the romantic type," Shane comments.

"Da, is very romantic. Do you know Pushkin? Famous Russian poet, always writing about duels. Anyway, he was older than Natalya, and poor, and she was not. Her family didn't want her to marry him at all. Forbidden love, yes? Then years later, everybody thought she was cheating on him so he said, I will duel this man. He got shot and died."

"Jesus, that's actually tragic."

"People do stupid things all the time." Ilya looks to the side, at Shane's profile. "But that's not why it is my favorite. My mother took me there, when I was small. It was January, snow was everywhere. Pushkin and Natalya had snow hats and I thought it was so funny and beautiful. I remember it very well." His mother was beautiful, too, snowflakes disappearing into her hair, melting against her skin.

"I understand," Shane says quietly, still looking up at the giant lion in front of them. He can't understand, Ilya thinks. He knows nothing, but Ilya doesn't have any other words to use. To Shane, Ilya's mother is still in Moscow; to Shane, this is a piece of Rozanov trivia.

"What about Ottawa?" Ilya asks.

"No Pushkin statues, no," he says, not aiming to be funny, except Ilya feels the corner of his mouth go up, anyway. It's so endearing. The name sounds like he's saying Push-kin, so rough around the edges. "I think. Probably some others, though, but none that I remember or… have a connection to, I guess. Sorry."

"Is okay. I'll find something else for you."

The small smile Shane gives him is a gift. Ilya wishes he could pocket it and keep it safe. Opening his mouth and telling the story felt like pulling a splinter out of the palm of his hand, but it's dulled the otherwise sharp edge of the tension between them.

"We can go back to the Metro," Ilya says.

Softness is still stretching Shane's features into gentle shapes. He's just looking at Ilya, still, as if this is what knowing someone meant. The square is open around them, bursting at the seams with sunlight and burning through Ilya's clothes, and he can't look away. How fucked up are they if a half-assed story about an unimportant statue on Arbat Street nails them to a spot?

Ilya has never held Shane's hand. He's never kissed just the corner of his mouth in greeting. He's never seen him sleep.

Shane blinks. "There's actually— Uh, there's one entrance right there, I guess you didn't notice?"

Like schoolboys on a field trip, they both turn towards where they came from, away from the lion.

It's true, Ilya didn't notice it, but there is an entrance only a few feet away—a wide staircase leading down, the plaque next to it saying PLACE DENFERT-ROCHEREAU.

"You know, I wish I had my phone on me," Shane says as they're walking towards it. "I could have looked up the statue or taken pictures."

"Now you will have to remember it instead and read Wikipedia after. So terrible."

"You're an asshole, Rozanov," Shane responds, but it's so playful that Ilya doesn't correct him. If anything, Ilya is thankful that Shane is a step ahead, already skipping down the set of stairs, and can't see the blush that colors Ilya's pale cheeks.

Once inside, shoes scraping against the black flooring, they automatically beeline for the ticket machine. Ilya has no idea how the system works, but Hollander is either a genius by nature or he has the memory of an elephant and still remembers the zones and tarifs and what-nots from when he was here with his parents. It doesn't help that he keeps the language setting on French. Ilya is left to watch as Shane pushes this button and that, pausing on one screen and rereading the options while tugging at his eyelashes before continuing, until two tickets come out of the small slot.

"Here," he says, pushing one of the small white rectangles into Ilya's hand. Of course their skin meets—sweaty, warm, far too brief.

Behind the ticket check barrier, the station sprawls in every direction. Right ahead of them, there is a beige-looking board with a purple 4 up top. Direction of Bagneux, wherever that is. Ilya discards it immediately—there are only a few stops there before it terminates, and he's trying to go a greater distance.

"This is so fucking ridiculous," Shane reiterates, and his body language reflects it. He seems to be withdrawing into himself, trying to appear smaller. Ilya sees traces of panic starting to show in the flushed color of his freckled cheeks.

"Is an adventure," Ilya says with more conviction than he actually feels.

He takes the first left (6 enveloped in lime green, two directions) and runs down another two sets of stairs. He hears Shane running after him.

Even though they're underground and technically removed from the real world, what they're doing seems to take on more shape here. As Ilya's eyes scan his surroundings—all the corridors that look the same, all the people coming and going—he can feel his heart thumping. Not because he ran down a few stairs; he feels thrilled and scared and strangely joyous.

"Tam, there!" he exclaims like a child when he finally spots another one of those beige-y boards. This one goes in the direction of Étoile, and there's a significant list of stops listed underneath.

Shane is sizing it up skeptically.

"Okay. Now close your eyes," Ilya instructs.

"What? Why?"

"Close your eyes and point at one."

Shane's face scrunches up in barely hidden disgust. "I'm not touching that," he deadpans, "there's no way. Do you have any idea how many people touch it every day?"

"Yes, and French rats are magic, too, they jump up and rub their balls on it, Shane." Ilya rolls his eyes. "Just tap it. It will not kill you, I promise."

There's a moment where Ilya is uncertain that Shane will play along. He's just opening his mouth to say, You're a hockey player, not a princess, when Shane sighs. To Ilya's surprise, he squeezes his eyes shut. Not for a moment does the disgust leave Shane's face, but he cracks the knuckles of his right hand and then reaches out with his pointer finger. It makes the briefest of contacts with Boissière.

"I have no idea where or what that is," Shane says after he opens his eyes. He's scrubbing his right palms against his thigh like the fabric is highly antibacterial.

"Same," Ilya agrees, but there's excitement bubbling inside him. It's many stops away, that's all he knows. "Let's go."

One final set of stairs later, they end up on a semi-busy platform. The next train is supposed to arrive in three minutes according to the board, and Ilya is already bouncing on his heels. At the end of it, maybe twenty meters or so, a young white woman in a long black coat stands next to a small speaker and sings.

Ilya recognizes the song; Édith Piaf is as popular in Russia as anywhere else. Many people say that Russians are cold by nature, but the truth is—generally speaking, of course, this has nothing to do with Ilya—that they are deep feelers. They might not understand the words, but the magnanimity of Piaf's voice and the emotions she carries on every trill feel familiar, big, and universal. Is it cliché? Maybe, yes, but does that matter?

"What is she singing?" Ilya asks, looking to the side at Shane. "The words."

"Hm? You mean in the song?"

"Yes, what are the words?"

Shane bites his lower lip. There is no way he's not recognizing the song, but he still takes his time to look towards the woman and listen. He looks tired, almost like if Ilya challenges him with one more thing, he's going to sit down right here and not move, but he fights it. It is incredible how much Shane fights it; and what if he fights it every day, with everyone?

Or does it get easier when he's with people he likes?

"She's, um— Well, the French words are, Non, je ne regrette rien." The pink in his cheeks turns a violent red. Freckle after freckle jumps out, becoming so much more prominent when set against this background of blushing. "It means No, I regret nothing."

"Hot," Ilya says.

Shane snickers. "Yeah, living your life without regrets must be pretty nice."

"I meant is hot when you speak French."

If possible, Shane's cheeks burn even hotter. Ilya's chest was already squeezing around every beat of his heart, but seeing the damage he's causing grips it even tighter. While Shane is staring down, mesmerized by the tips of his shoes, Ilya takes the moment to look at him. Not in a reflection, not out of the corner of his eye; straight on. Even in this artificial light, Hollander is rude enough to look beautiful.

It is not something Ilya can or wants to unpack. Of course, he knows there is a reason for all of this, somewhere. A reason for Sochi, a reason for all this unresolved hurt, a reason for all the doors he's knocked on over the years, a reason he can't let Shane go. Sometimes it's about checking him into the boards, sometimes it's about texting him filth until he gets a frustrated response; every time, it's about saying look at me, look at me, look at me, I'm here. And why is that, exactly? What is it about Hollander that Ilya can't walk out of his orbit permanently?

Nope, he doesn't want to know. He doesn't want to know why spending twelve hours in the streets of Paris with him is better than doing anything—anything—else.

The train rolls into the station on an aggressive gust of wind, and its rumbling swallows the song. People step off, at least five out of every open door, and then Ilya jumps on with Shane in tow.

At least the train is not horribly busy—yet, probably, Ilya saw a sign for the Eiffel Tower under one of the stops on the board.

He rushes after two empty seats and plops down by the window, Shane hesitantly sitting next to him. The seats are tight and their thighs bump; their shoulders touch. Two teenage girls sit across from them, deep in a hushed conversation, rapid French flying back and forth.

The train jerks into movement and the station disappears.

Ilya is left staring at his own reflection; the surprise of it doesn't give him enough time to look away. He looks bewildered to himself, and the wind has tussled his hair.

He blinks, unwilling to consider himself for longer.

In the dark window, right after, he catches Shane's gaze. Their reaction is the same—look anywhere else—but mere seconds later, as if neither of them could help it, their eyes meet again and linger.

Ilya grins, and although Shane doesn't return it, he relaxes against Ilya's side. Like they're more than strangers; like they're more than rivals; like they're more.

They don't speak much during their time on the train. Perhaps it's all the people in the carriage with them that make them feel like every word would be overheard. In the quiet space, Ilya tries very hard not to think about the possibility of getting recognized. Almost everyone around them is busy—with their phones, with a book, with a conversation, with blankly staring ahead. Still, it nags at him; though even if anybody did spot them, what would it matter? Without a phone, neither of them can scroll social media for rumours or blurry pictures.

The train slowly picks up more and more passengers, just like Ilya expected. Bodies amass until they fill out every empty nook and cranny, and Shane has to press against Ilya when a group of tourists in matching yellow baseball caps squeezes into the aisle next to him. For a moment, Ilya almost drapes his arms over his shoulders to pull him closer.

Thankfully, the yellow baseball caps file out at Bir-Hakeim, and half of the bodies go out with them. The remaining half halves again two stops later, at Trocadéro.

It makes exiting at Boissière easier, and the half-empty train departs with another gust of wind and a loud siren-like wail.

This station is a lot less overwhelming and much more straightforward—the only thing they can do is follow the blue Sortie sign (Shane promptly supplies that it means exit, even though it's relatively self-explanatory) and go up yet more stairs.

Boissière spits them out onto a wide street, and if Ilya was expecting to be able to orient himself, he was terribly wrong. Seemingly the same trees, along with the same architecture, line it on both sides. It makes him want to climb up on a roof somewhere to look around, but he can't imagine how scorching hot that would be. It's probably nearing eight in the evening now, and it's still stiflingly warm outside.

"Where are we?" Shane asks, looking around like a lost puppy.

Ilya points at the nearest building, but decidedly doesn't attempt to pronounce Avenue Kléber. The start of that second word reminds Ilya too much of khleb, meaning bread in Russian, and he'd rather steer clear of sounding like a fool.

"Were you here with your parents?" Ilya asks when Shane's eyes scan the sign.

"No, never. I have no idea where we are."

"So you are here for the first time, too. Not just me."

"Yeah, you don't have to be so smug about it. Where do you want to go?" But the glint is back, back in Shane's eyes, and it shines.

"Straight again? Worked well last time."

Shrugging, Shane simply starts walking. His hands are finally free of their pocket-prison, but now they look like luxurious bait that Ilya wants to hook with his fingers. "We were here a long time ago," he says all of a sudden. "My mom and dad gave the trip to each other as an anniversary gift both times. For their tenth, and then twelfth."

"They couldn't find a babysitter for you?"

"Excuse me?"

"Paris trips are romantic, no? I'm sure they didn't want little Shane Hollander ruining all their fun."

Shane grunts. "Please do not make me think about my parents that way, that's gross."

"What?" Ilya jokes, nudging Shane in the shoulder. "I have seen Yuna Hollander. She is very good-looking."

"Ilya!"

"Sorry," Ilya says with a laugh, cheeks dimpling. "Can't help it."

Shane shoves his hands back in those pockets. Shame. They pass a few establishments, a Sushi place snug right next to a Lebanese restaurant. There are tobacco shops and a mini market, a pharmacy, and a boarded-up dentist's office.

"I want to say more, but I think you'll just laugh at me," Shane admits after another minute or two.

"I will not laugh," Ilya hurries to say. The rules of their game are blurry at best and disregarded completely at worst, but Ilya can play by them, too. Shane had nothing but understanding to offer at the lion statue, and Ilya wants him to be on the receiving end of that. "Really, Shane, I won't."

"Okay." Kicking a rock ahead on the sidewalk, Shane takes a slight step to the side, like he's making space for his own words, or maybe he just wants to be farther away from them. "I honestly don't know why they took me, and I didn't like it here, either. I was a weird kid, I guess, maybe they worried a babysitter would be too difficult, or maybe they wanted to spend more time with me before billet families and everything else kicked off, I don't know."

"But you were unhappy anyway?"

"I was a picky eater tailing my parents from one landmark I didn't care about to the next. What do you think?"

"This is not joke or laughing, okay?" Ilya assures him before he continues on. "I think you are still picky eater, but now you are tailing me. But maybe you like it a bit."

Shane shakes his head, but it's not frustrated or angry; it's relaxed, familiar. "I liked London more when we went. It can be colder there, so at least you're not sweating your ass off all the time. It's more fun."

Ilya would bet a lot of money that that's not all there is to it. Call it a gut feeling, but he thinks maybe something else was going on at the time, like a deeply hidden layer Shane might not even remember because he's buried it so deep. Alongside that hunch, a pang of jealousy resides. The image of little Shane, always walking safely between his set of parents, seeing the world through eyes that have not known hockey yet, or the NHL draft, or Ilya. Perfect and fucking nuclear; mom, dad, prodigy son.

What must that be like?

But he was unhappy anyway, Ilya reminds himself as they let the conversation drift into silence again.

The crowd is minimal as they walk up the street until it suddenly swells. The view opening up in front of them makes Ilya question whether all of Paris is just long streets with a delta at the end that flows out into a square.

"Oh, shit, I know where we are," Shane exclaims out of nowhere, satisfaction forming and settling in the shape of a smirk.

"Good for you."

"This is Place du Trocadéro. Come with me."

Without warning, Shane's hand slides into Ilya's, unexpected and exhilarating. It's only to weasel their way through the crowd, Ilya is aware of this, but his insides lurch like he's just driven over a pothole in an extremely old car. Before he knows it, Shane is pulling him along the left side, until a group waiting at a crosswalk absorbs them.

To Ilya, there is nothing special about this. It's just a square; sure, a pretty one, and lined with expensive-looking cafes, but—what of it?

That is, until they finally cross. Shane's hand is still nestled in his while he leads them around one more building and out into the open.

The Eiffel Tower stands tall in the distance, and it feels like Ilya could catch it in the palm of his other hand. People are taking pictures, selfie sticks wave around in the air, everybody is trying to capture something real.

Ilya's eyes are continuously jumping between the view and Shane's face. He feels it as a physical loss when Shane wiggles his fingers free and shoves them into his pockets again. Like a proud scout, he sways on his toes once, like, look! I got us here! And it is a beautiful view.

"I will take a picture," Ilya says without a trace of a joke in his voice.

Frowning at first, Shane tilts his head to the side. He understands, though, when Ilya takes his thumbs and forefingers and touches them together, trapping the world in front of him in a crooked rectangle. He puts it against his face like it's a real-life, old-fashioned camera.

They should have gone closer to the railing up ahead, but it's still beautiful. The Tower is in the back; Shane is up in the forefront, freckled, his face open in a smile that Ilya has never seen on him. Relaxed, easy; his shoulders are down, chin jutting out slightly in triumph.

"Say cheese," Ilya says.

"I'm not gonna say cheese," Shane argues, but his grin goes wider still.

Ilya fake-clicks to take a fake-picture, blinking. He hopes he remembers this forever; hopes his brain is already storing it in a vault somewhere in the back of his mind where everything untouchable lives, good and bad.

"You're so stupid." Shaking his head, Shane shakes off his pose when Ilya lets his arms down. "Come— Come have a glass of wine with me."

Ilya clutches his chest. "You're asking me out, Shane? But we have only known each other one hour! Is too soon!"

"I'm serious, Ilya. There's a spot across," Shane says, head nodding back towards the square, "with a nice view. That's how I remember it, at least, and don't call me boring. Everyone should grab a glass of wine in Paris."

"Mm, no, I wasn't going to. It's the least boring thing you have ever told me."

"I'm regretting this already."

"Too late," Ilya informs him, lips pursed. "You have to take me on a wine date now."

"It's not a date," Shane argues, but he's already leading them back, his actions so clearly in contrast to his words.

Ilya follows. Wishing they were still holding hands; wishing he could stop and turn Hollander around to kiss him with the Eiffel Tower behind them.

Fuck.

This was a bad idea, wasn't it?

Ilya is so fucked.

THE ROUTE:

Chapter End Notes

thank you so much for reading! i hope you liked the chapter and the little maps at the end, too :)

in lieu of adventure, i put all the stops on line 6 on a spinner wheel and then let fate decide where i'd be taking them. we landed somewhere so stupidly ideal you probably don't believe me when i say i left it up to chance lol.

if you want to go on an adventure, the spinner wheel is here. you can use google maps to see where you landed, but here's a playlist with various line 6 metro station walkthroughs (not all of them, though, sadly). let me know where you're going if you play!

thank you for being here ♥ i'm on threads or on tumblr! i'd love to see you there. ♥

Chapter 3: 8PM

Chapter Notes

thank you to Sharon (@sharon19182), Eevie (itsme_eevie) and Sophie (@phonequeen2) for their help with this chapter's French ♥

hi! i'm so happy you're here! i hope you enjoy this one ♥

on Shane's wine knowledge 🍷

if you believe Shane to be a wine guy, i'm kindly asking you to suspend your belief. here he knows close to nothing about it because it's not his preferred drink of choice and he doesn't host enough parties to care to change it, sorry! i hope we can still be friends lol.

french translations in the end notes :)

Not for the first time tonight, Shane surprises himself. Out of all the routes he could have taken and all the places he could have picked, he settles for an overcrowded restaurant. It's sandwiched between Avenue d'Eylau and Avenue Raymond Poincaré, and the bushes that line it offer a very fleeting feeling of privacy.

The crowd around them is a sort of privacy, too.

That's what Shane tells himself, at least. Almost every table is taken—people are sipping on their drinks, knives and forks scrape against plates—and the sidewalk up front is bursting at the seams in random intervals. Every once in a while, a bike rings when a tourist steps off it and into traffic, and even though it's usually a shrill sound, it barely registers among the cacophony that already envelops them.

But, Shane tells himself, Ilya has never seen the Eiffel Tower.

Which is a cheesy thought to have, but through the tremble in his fingers and the constant buzzing of his mind, he can't help himself. It is easier to go unnoticed in bigger crowds, though, that much is true, so maybe—maybe it's not all bad.

They've scored a table towards the back, not far from the door leading inside. Right in front of them: the Tower, the view of its peak obstructed by the branches of a young tree.

Shane peruses the menu. Everything is written in French with a neat English translation underneath. He leafs through it until he sees LES VINS in the elegant gold font atop a page. He quickly realizes the futility of it—Shane knows fuck all about wine.

His mother drinks champagne around Christmastime and red wine if they're grabbing lunch somewhere. She says white gives her headaches. Shane scans the list, eyes running over Pinot Noir and Bordeaux and all the Château names he's never seen before. Maybe he should just ask for whatever comes recommended by the house, and he's going to have to speak French, isn't he? Ilya will want him to.

Ilya, who thinks this is a date.

Does Shane want this to be a date?

Thankfully, his brain is too busy to get hung up on it, or on questioning if this whole night classifies as a date in general.

Over his wine-related confused crisis, Shane struggles to tune out all the noise around him. There are people speaking both French and English, and at the table in front of them, there's an older couple who speaks a language Shane doesn't recognize. At first, he thinks it might be Russian, but it doesn't quite fit with the language he remembers from Sochi. It's softer around the edges, more sing-songy, melodic.

With a sigh, Shane puts the menu down. It's no use—he can stare at the words 'Château Roquefort' and 'Domaine de la Renjarde' for hours and still be none the wiser.

"Hey," he says instead to get Ilya's attention.

Rozanov's eyes snap up from his own menu. He's frowning, and it looks alarmingly adorable on his otherwise smooth face. "Hm?"

Shane hides his hands. He remembers catching Ilya's and tugging him along to see the view, and his skin has been hungry for more ever since. He's terribly jealous of everyone who's touching palms and entwining their fingers over tables. He doesn't know why.

"Have you picked?"

"Mm, I'll have the Chardonnay," he says almost flippantly, although he says chardonnay in such a way that it sounds curt and short.

"Do you… know a lot about wine?" Shane tries. His throat still gets mysteriously dry every time he asks for or offers information. All the words seem to have to fight against all the years they've known each other and gone without knowing.

Ilya snickers. "Nope. Is the first thing on the menu, so it can't be bad."

Shane can't fight that logic; it pulls a bit-back laugh out of him, too. "Alright, well, I'll get the Bordeaux, then."

"Wise choice."

They both close the menus, and Shane looks around. The temperature has finally gone down a bit, though not majorly; his hoodie still hangs over his chair, and Ilya's face is still glistening with the remnants of sweat. Despite the hour, the sky is still bright, though a breeze has picked up—almost like that's what's going to bring in the golden hour and the subsequent sunset.

"So serious," Ilya says all of a sudden. When Shane looks to him, he realizes that Ilya's eyes never left his face.

"What?" he mumbles.

"You look soo serious," Ilya repeats, exaggerating. "You look like this sometimes when you are on the bench, waiting for next shift. You do this thing with your hockey stick." Ilya pretends to bang an invisible stick against the floor in a slow rhythm, one-two-three, face scrunched up in mock-seriousness. "Wizard Hollander."

"Just thinking ahead, considering the best play," Shane explains before Ilya can say anything about a magic staff, though his voice is still just a mumble. Shockingly, he doesn't want to talk about hockey here. 'Ignore Rozanov, ignore Hollander' is still one of the most—if not the most—enchanting things about this. It doesn't mean that it's easy to do. They've talked about arenas, and they've called each other their last names almost frivolously, but Shane doesn't want to get stuck here.

And he doesn't want to be the butt of a joke, either.

Ilya must sense it, because he clears his throat. "Is that what you are doing now?" he asks, transporting them back to Paris, away from rinks and hockey games.

"I don't know, I guess—maybe? But I know that's not what this is about, okay? It's just…"

"You miss your routine, and your nice hotel room…" Ilya trails off with a smirk. But again, he must sense his words aren't landing like he wants them to. "No, no, I don't mean it badly, Shane. I get it."

"You get it?" Shane asks with a raised brow. He finds it impossible to imagine Ilya as somebody who understands schedules and rigorously constructed timetables.

Ilya is just opening his mouth to respond when a waiter makes her way over to them. She's short and white and tattooed, and even though she doesn't have Jérôme's suave charm, she's approaching them with a huge smile. Shane has never seen anything like it on staff anywhere, and for a moment, he's terrified that she's recognized them. That she's going to hop to their table and say Monsieur Rozanov! Monsieur Hollander! Les meilleurs hockeyeurs au monde!

Shane's heart is in his ass when she stops by them.

"Bonsoir," she says simply, albeit cheerfully, and Shane breathes out.

"Bonsoir," he says on the exhale. He doesn't miss Ilya's eyes jumping to his face, briefly, before adding his own accented bonsoir, and it transports him back to the Metro station, to the way Ilya said hot when Shane spoke French. God.

"Vous avez choisi?" she asks, still upbeat.

It feels like he's going through a repeat of the hotel bar situation, and it would be so easy to slip into English again.

Shane purses his lips, feeling two sets of eyes boring into him. He doesn't know why he feels so embarrassed to speak French here—sure, what he said about the accent was true, but French is something that is an integral part of him. Years and years of learning it, of hanging on every Montrealer's lips to get the pronunciation just right, and now… what? He's ashamed of it?

No.

Then what?

As in many other moments in his life, no matter how big, Shane imagines his mother. Yuna Hollander says soft things harshly and harsh things softly, even if factually. When he was six and fell thirteen times during practice, she pulled him to the side and put her hands on his small shoulders. "It doesn't matter how many times you fall, Shane. You are good." That was all he needed to hear. The second part, more so than the first, maybe.

"Oui," he says now, and he tries to ignore Ilya's eyes glued to his face. He tries to ignore the heat in it. "Un verre de Chardonnay et un verre de Bordeaux, si possible."

"Pas de problème, messieurs. Je vous apporte ça tout de suite." She makes a small note and leaves, her dimpled smile still present. Right away will not be so quick, Shane realizes when he sees her stop by a different table, and another.

When he can't prolong it any longer, he looks back at Ilya.

And Ilya is… Ilya is red in the cheeks, which is so unusual that Shane can't find it in himself to call it blushing. The color burns around his cheeks, though, small splotches here and there, as if it was him speaking French a moment ago.

"What the fuck are you staring at?" Shane challenges. Carefully, too, hoping that he can make his tone go teasing instead of offended.

Ilya, one elbow propped against the table, bites his lip and buries his chin in the palm of his hand. He looks like every other bad boy Shane ever had the displeasure of sharing a class with. Except with Ilya, it's—it's different. It's always been different and this, too, sends a shiver down Shane's spine while making him doubt that the temperature has really cooled.

"Say a bad word in French," he says.

Shane gulps. "Like what?"

"I don't know. Something. It can be kindergarten bad, like chort. Is not a bad word at all, really. We say it like shit or maybe damn." He shrugs. "Means devil in Russian," he adds then, the fingers of his other hand coming up, catching in his own curls, imitating horns.

"Yeah, Ilya, very you," Shane says through a laugh.

"I am very nice, you know," Ilya argues. "But you're avoiding."

And maybe that's true. Both of those things, really: both that Shane is deflecting the request, and that Ilya is nice. Shane doesn't know him like this—he only knows him as a hockey player, so fast and good and sometimes intimidating. Or he knows him behind closed doors, where not a lot of words get exchanged, and Shane gets mixed up about what's nice when it comes to that; it's such murky territory.

Ilya used to say Get on your knees but then that would open up a latch Shane had thought rusted shut. He used to fuck Shane into the mattress but then Shane would say thank you and kiss Ilya's forehead like it was a love letter he was leaving a lipstick stain on.

This Ilya—the Ilya sitting across from him, chin in hand—is a different type of nice. And he's been nice this whole time, Shane thinks, and it's strange. The evening feels like water that Shane is trying to hold in his palms. Running around, looking for a glass or a jar to seal it all into, except it keeps vanishing drop by drop.

Feeling a pinprick of mischief at the back of his mind, Shane smirks. "Va chier, I guess. It means fuck off. Now will you stop staring at me?"

Pouting, Ilya hums. "Is that what you want?" he asks.

No. It's not. The answer comes to Shane quickly, quicker than the blink of an eye.

"Non," Shane replies, struggling to bring his voice above a whisper.

He's met with a smile that only cracks when the waitress comes back and deposits two elegant glasses on their table, and even then it's only slightly dimmed and redirected.

Shane thanks her - merci - and Ilya gives her a smirk.

The glasses clink dully and they both take a sip. Shane's wine knowledge is limited—he doesn't care for it much and he doesn't host nearly enough to change it—but even he knows that they should be swirling it; smelling it. They're practically committing a crime by sipping right away.

Ilya smacks his lips. "Very dry," he comments.

Shane's Bordeaux tastes like grape-adjacent acid. "Yeah, mine too."

"And what year is it? 2010? Very dry year, I suppose."

"The rain was… particularly acidic."

They look at each other and burst into laughter. It takes Shane aback—really, it's not that funny and he likes the wine. He would have hated it so much more had it been sweet. It tastes like grapes mixed with some sort of berry, and it lingers in his mouth together with the unmistakable taste of alcohol. Coating his taste buds, rolling down his throat with a pleasant thrum.

None of that has anything to do with the expression on Ilya's face. Childish wonder, and Shane is probably reflecting it right back.

He ponders, not for the first time, if Ilya is equally confused by all of this—or if it's just Shane, balancing on the precipice. Stuck somewhere between what he's known and what is now being shown to him, and the disparity between the two. Does Shane seem strange, or different? Is he making sense? Does he go well with the Shane Hollander that Ilya is familiar with?

"It's good wine," Shane sighs after his second sip. And that's not how acid rain works.

"Every wine is good wine compared to cheap boxed wine from Russia," Ilya says.

It offers up yet another something to unpack. Shane doubts that Ilya—nowadays-Ilya with all his money, even if Russia lost to Latvia at the Olympics—buys boxed wine off the shelf.

He imagines, instead, Ilya as he was when Shane met him in Saskatchewan. Younger than that, even. Curls messy like right now, but wide-eyed on a Friday evening, lips heavy with a lie that he's sleeping over at a friend's, pouring bottom-rack wine into an innocent-looking juice box. Sitting somewhere, or knocking on someone's house-party door, drinking.

Still, Shane asks: "Do you drink that often, when you're in Russia?"

Ilya grimaces, his face folding into scrunched-up distaste. "No," he says. "No, I don't want to talk about Russia."

His R rolls, and it sounds harsher than in any other word. The sh sound in the middle, too, sounds like he's shooing away a horrible animal that's littering in front of his door.

For a moment, Shane considers asking anyway. If he admitted to this being a date, it might even work.

But Shane, even though he's not the sharpest tool in the box when it comes to socializing, notices the tension that settles into Ilya's shoulders. It very much reminds him of his stance back in Sochi; his shoulder felt literally cold, not just metaphorically, and he couldn't look Shane straight in the eye, either.

Instead of asking, Shane regrets giving in to his curiosity in the first place. Like he should have known questions about Russia were off the table; like he should have known it would sour the dry wine.

"Okay," he whispers.

And it is. Shane tells himself it is okay, that Ilya never wants to answer, that he seems to clam up the moment his home country is mentioned; that it's okay to turn Shane away.

"Mind if I smoke?" Ilya asks, but he's already magicing a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. It's all mushed up and crinkly. Only a few cigarettes rattle around inside; Ilya pulls one out, and with it, a small BIC.

"Go ahead," Shane says with the wave of his hand.

Ilya rolls the brown filter between his fingers before putting it between his lips. Shane watches it mindlessly—the way they pucker around it to hold it, the way the flame from the lighter dances across Ilya's face briefly while the tip of the cigarette catches. The paper burns with the first inhale, orange and bright, and when Ilya pulls it away from his face, it's wine-stained. Ilya's mouth opens into a loose O, a cloud of smoke shrouding him for a second or two, and Shane still can't look away.

"What, you want a drag?" Ilya asks. Somewhere between the mention of Russia and this moment, his tone has iced over.

Shane considers it, though. Not because he ever wants to smoke. It's just… Just the idea of closing his lips around the exact damp spot that Ilya's have been.

He shakes his head. "No, thank you. It smells gross enough, I don't need it in my mouth."

"Ah," Ilya says with a smirk, like they're both thinking about other things that Shane has put in his mouth. "And you're going to tell me it's bad for me, yes?"

"Nope. You're not Rozanov, remember?" Who is he reminding? "For all I know, Ilya is not a professional elite athlete who should be focusing on his lungs and the well-being of others and like, the general environment."

The sound at the back of Ilya's throat is very familiar.

"Okay, fine. Like I never said anything." Shane leans in, both elbows on the table, as if he were trying to close the gap between them inch by inch. "Tell me about your first cigarette, then."

"I told you," Ilya says. "I don't want to talk about Russia, Shane."

It's unsaid, but Shane hears please. Ilya's tone is no longer icy—it's pleading, really. It's just hard to distinguish whether he's begging to be left alone or to be understood without having to explain anything. And doesn't Shane understand that? Hasn't he wished, more times than he can count, that other people would look at him and understand?

At the same time, it makes him want to explode.

Shane thought this was different. He thought it was okay to ask, and it was okay to pretend that answering would be easy. He thought they wouldn't hold back; he thought this was the one moment—the only moment, probably—that Rozanov would look at him and not through him. Mistakenly, apparently, Shane thought that this was their chance at having something.

But it's still just fleeting, isn't it? Here he is, pinning dreams and hopes on this, romanticizing every word because they're in Paris, but that's not what it is.

Not to Rozanov.

Ilya smokes the rest of his cigarette in silence, and Shane doesn't try again, either. The wine in their glasses dwindles until it's gone, and Ilya asks for the bill in English.

"You were maybe right," he says when he pays with his credit card and the smiley waitress disappears back inside.

"Hm?" Shane is just pulling the hoodie over his head. He can't shake the random chill he's gotten, even though it must still be over twenty-five degrees Celsius.

Ilya shrugs. "This wasn't a date, I think."

It lands and stings.

"Yeah, well, I told you so. Maybe you'll finally start listening to me."

They worm their way out of the restaurant. For every table that empties, somebody else comes in and keeps the place busy—there's a couple already beelining for their spot. The people who spoke a language similar to Russian are long gone, and Shane never even got to ask if Ilya recognized it.

Without discussing their next destination, they take up a leisurely pace and walk back in the direction of the viewpoint. If possible, the crowd feels bigger around them, and Shane wonders what locals must feel like if their daily routes take them through these packed streets, or if they leave their homes ten minutes early to walk around. Montreal can be busy, too; it seems like there's always something happening, but no singular part of Shane's life feels like this.

There's silence between them, still. It feels prevalent, colder than the shade they walk through. It's almost like they managed to get a small fire burning and now it's barely taking on the shape of embers.

Shane blames himself. Of course he does.

He lives with so many ifs. Every hockey game is plagued with them, before-during-after. His daily routine skirts around them, his evenings hang on them, his mornings burst them open. If Shane didn't insist on having wine. If he didn't ask about Russia. If he didn't have so many feelings that still had him hovering between Sochi and wherever else. If, if, if.

"Do you want to go closer?" he asks quietly. "To the Eiffel Tower, I mean."

Next to him, Ilya feels distant again. "Yes, why not," he says with a shrug.

The viewpoint forks in two different directions that both line the gardens underneath. There are people gathered there, too—sitting on the stairs, standing in line for greasy-looking grilled cheese, avoiding large displays of souvenirs that cover the ground. Everybody seems to be waiting for the sunset already; the sun will sink and the Tower will light up. It's still got a way to go, though—another hour, at least.

Somewhere along the way, Shane's become the leader. Ilya hangs half a step behind him, following as they descend line after line of easy steps. He doesn't mind, but he wishes he could still glance to the side and watch Ilya look at Paris.

He told the truth, back when he talked about his parents bringing him here. He had a positively shit time, but he always thought that the city could be beautiful if he got to see it with the right person at the right time. To experience it with Ilya, or maybe experience it the same way he is experiencing it, is as close as he's gotten. Now he can't peek at his face; can't check if Ilya's seeing the fountain to their right; can't make sure that things are still… okay.

Because are they?

At the end of the path, there's another crosswalk, narrower than the one on Place du Trocadéro. It gently leads them onto Pont d'Iéna, a robust, wide-set bridge. It extends over the river Seine like a hand; and at the end of it, the Eiffel Tower. The sun crouches next to it, slowly traversing the sky towards the west.

At the bridge's mouth, Shane stops and turns towards Ilya. He has to squint against the bright rays of sunlight that halo his head. "So what do you think?"

The Tower is still many feet ahead of them, but this is possibly the last spot where the view of her isn't too skewed.

"Ugly metal," Ilya comments dryly, but there's awe in his face that can't be mistaken for anything else.

"You're…" Shane snort-laughs. "An asshole. You're an asshole."

"And I think maybe you still like it."

Ilya doesn't wait for an answer. He veers to the left side until he hits the railing, and he looks over it at the river flowing underneath.

Shane joins him there, his eyes tracking the massive body of water below them. "Have you ever been to the Rideau Canal in Ottawa?" he asks despite himself.

Ilya huffs out a breath. "We play against Ottawa, what, three times during the season. We win, go sleep, fly away." He looks at Shane, one eye squeezed near-shut against the sun. "So no, I haven't. Why?"

"It's pretty much the world's largest skating rink during winter," Shane replies with an amused smirk. Deep inside, he thinks Ilya would like it. The skateway is kilometer after kilometer of naturally frozen water. "It's like, the size of almost a hundred hockey rinks."

Ilya hums and leans against the sun-warmed railing with his side. "Do you go there often?"

Shane feels the sun pressing against his back from behind, so he mimes Ilya's pose until they're facing each other. "No, not really. I mean, not anymore. I used to go all the time as a kid with my parents, but it's difficult now that I'm in Montreal full-time. I only spend Christmas there and that's family time, and the skateway is obviously closed during the off season, so… Jesus, I'm sorry, I just realized I keep talking about my parents."

"Is nice. Tell me more. The first time you went there."

Shane looks at him quizically. Part of him wants to respond flippantly—why should I tell you about Ottawa when you can't even tell me about the first cigarette you ever smoked—but he's got a nagging feeling that this is Ilya trying to repair what he managed to tear down. His interest seems genuine, and even though Shane is tired of seeing doors that Ilya won't open, he doesn't see the harm in opening one more of his own.

"I was five, I think?" he says. Automatically, his eyes leave Ilya's face and look somewhere over his shoulder instead. As if he was seeing the snowy Rideau Canal instead of the Seine and its wide berth, he continues: "I was already taking hockey lessons, obviously, but that was the season they put me up as a goalie and I hated it. So my parents took me there to remind me I loved skating, and I mean, it worked." He laughs. "But the coach putting me on defense instead of Benny Simard a week later probably helped more."

The laugh that escapes Ilya is nothing short of gleeful. "You as goalie," he says. "What was the coach thinking?"

Shane's face reddens. "Right," he says, and he hates how insecure it sounds.

He's trapped in the memory, anyway: it's blurry around the edges because he was so small. It's flashes of moments more than anything. He remembers making his father chase him down the ice; he remembers his mother talking about how the Canal is linked to the Ottawa River, and how the Algonquin people call it Kichi Sibi.

Shane remembers that to this day. It lives inside him just like the fact that Yuna Hollander's mother was sometimes mama and sometimes okaasan, but Yuna has only ever been mom.

"Maybe Ottawa is not so boring," Ilya comments, pulling Shane out of his reverie. "Maybe I'll check out this Canal next time Boston plays there."

"Yeah," Shane says. His eyes fall downward, searching the empty space between them. "I can take you there if I'm in town."

The beat of silence that follows is stifling. Shane suddenly feels over-warm in his hoodie, and he can't believe he's said something so forward. As if whatever this is will ever walk out of the borders of Paris and follow them back into their NHL careers; as if they could be anything but rivals outside of here, anything but occasional fuck buddies, anything but Boston's Ilya Rozanov and Montreal's Shane Hollander.

"Okay, Shane," Ilya says quietly. "You can take me there if you are in town."

Except it sounds more like: I will only do this if you are. I will only go if you're the one lacing my skates up and buying me strawberries in chocolate at one of the stands.

Shane smiles.

"Let's keep walking, okay?" he suggests gently.

The lead-up to the Tower slowly turns into a pedestrian zone. They stay on the sides, dodging people with their phones up to take pictures. The metallic structure in front of them becomes incomprehensible. It is ugly metal, but her curves and intricate build look like precious filigree to Shane's eyes. Looking up from underneath, even though there's plexiglass preventing them from getting too close, it might as well be man-made Mount fucking Everest.

"Do you want to go up?" Shane asks as his eyes follow one of the elevators that is just making its way up one of the legs at an angle.

"No, this is better. I want to go see what's there," he says instead, pointing at the very end of the bridge. On the side, there's a small set of stairs that leads down like a drain in a kitchen sink.

Below, there's a mezzanine-like space comprised of food stalls and a vintage-style carousel. A hungry pang echoes through Shane's belly when the various smells hit his nose, but he ignores it: he knows they'll have to stop somewhere to eat, but he'd prefer something more intimate and less messy.

He follows Ilya again, a man on a mission, until they arrive at the cobble-stoned scenic waterfront. There are almost no people here, save for a couple holding hands and reading through a cruise-ship leaflet at the port. A group of teenage girls passes them on their way to the left, not noticing them, but that's all. It's the first time that Shane's felt alone here, outside of anybody's view, away from the potential risk of being spotted. He feels his shoulders relax.

No discussion needed, they go right. Although they've settled into silence again, it feels open this time.

Shane is given space to look at the tall wall to the side—there are markings telling of times when the Seine rose and covered the path they're walking—and towards the Seine. They walk by a floating restaurant draped in vines and potted flowers, and continue on until they reach a parking lot. Tall buses obscure the view, and once they've gone past them, Shane knows they're invisible to the naked eye, even if somebody was looking from Pont d'Iéna in an attempt to spot them.

They're alone.

"Come," Ilya says, walking towards a mustard-yellow bridge. His hand reaches out behind him. Although it's probably just an instruction, Shane's fingers itch with need to catch it.

They sit down on rough concrete, inches away from the water. The bridge covers them like a blanket, and its wide support columns seemingly wall them in.

Cool air wafts up from the river, and Shane spots goosebumps breaking out when he looks to Ilya and sees his bare arms.

"I'm sorry," Ilya says all of a sudden, quieter than Shane's ever heard him. His eyes are glued to the moving water. "About before."

"What do you mean?" Shane asks—not because he doesn't understand, but because he wants it spelled out.

"When you asked about Russia, I didn't…" Ilya trails off, looking to the side. "I don't know how to talk about it. I ruined the date."

"It wasn't a date," Shane responds stubbornly, but his heart is a wild horse galloping through a vast field.

"It was a date, Shane." Ilya's face turns back, eyes open and sizing Shane up; daring him to object.

And Shane can't, and so he says nothing.

"I will try," Ilya continues. "If you ask again later, I will try to answer."

"You don't owe me anything, Ilya," Shane whispers.

To a degree, he believes it. Beyond this, they are still two hockey players who don't owe each other anything. It would be different if they played for the same team and continuously let each other down on purpose, or if they were people in a committed relationship that started failing.

You owe each other trust, then, and explanation. You owe each other something.

Them, though? Shane started the sentence on a far-way rooftop in Vegas years ago, I thought maybe we… And then Ilya finished it in Sochi like the rest didn't exist, the sex, sure, but also the kiss on the stairwell and everything in between, and he said: We are not anything.

But if that's the case, why can't Shane let it go?

Ilya sighs next to him, like he's caught in his own inexplicable whirlwind. And the thing about Ilya Rozanov is that you just never know what to expect. Is he going to shove Shane into the water? No, he probably wouldn't do that. Is he going to jump up and start running, yelling catch me? Is he going to say something unhinged, or disclose something else seemingly unrelated to anything? Shane doesn't know, so he braces for the inevitable surprise—and it still gets him.

"I want to kiss you," Ilya says simply.

Shane's face betrays him. His eyes fall to Ilya's lips almost automatically and linger there. He knows he's forgetting to breathe, almost like he's a teenager on the verge of his first kiss, but he can't make his lungs expand, to function properly when Ilya shimmies closer.

His bare knee knocks against Shane's, and the body heat of his thigh rests against his with edgeless pressure.

Shane doesn't say yes, please kiss me, but his body does it for him. It's written in the slight tilt of his head as he subsconsciously leans closer; it's spelled out in his inability to look back up and find Ilya's eyes. It's in the gravel underneath his palm when Shane inches his whole torso forward and holds himself up against it; it blooms in the slowly closing distance between them. Most of all, it's what spills out when his own mouth parts in anticipation.

Ilya's hand is gentle when it rests against Shane's jaw, thumb catching near the corner of his mouth.

Their lips greet each other in a soft brush. Ilya's Cupid's bow nudges Shane's upper lip before pressing against it, and his tongue slips over the bottom one and into Shane's mouth.

Shane breathes out. It's almost painful, the way he so likes being kissed like this.

The kiss deepens. All Shane can smell is Ilya, all he can taste is Ilya, all he can feel is Ilya, everywhere around him. Their tongues meet and Ilya grunts, low like the undercurrent of this river next to them, and Shane could stay here. Stay here in this shade, stay with his hand against the ground, stay and be kissed.

But they're in public. Somebody could walk up at any point.

Besides—the last time Shane let himself be kissed this way, the last time he let himself be this vulnerable, it resulted in being left on read for nearly half a year. He wishes he could get answers from the weight of Ilya's tongue in his own mouth, but he can't.

Shane pulls away at the same time as pushing at Ilya's chest.

"Not here," he mumbles, his lips wet. Ilya's heartbeat thumps wildly against Shane's palm.

"Hollander," he urges.

"Ilya." Shane shakes his head. "Not here. I can't— And in Sochi when— Just stop."

"Shane—"

"We should get going and find someplace to eat," Shane cuts him off resolutely. Before he knows it, he's back up on his feet, talking over the pulse in his lips; rambling over his desire to let it continue, just let it continue, even if it fucking ruins him. "Let's go."

Because if we stay here, and if I let you kiss me, I will tell you everything, and I don't even know what it means, and you can't know, this can't happen, I can't let it all spill out.

"Okay, okay," Ilya says, rushing to his feet because Shane is already walking, hurrying towards the nearest stairs that will lead them out of here, away from the shade.

The first shimmers of the golden hour pierce the air as the evening crawls towards nine o'clock, and Shane is running for his life.

THE ROUTE / UNDER THE BRIDGE:

Chapter End Notes

click for french!

Monsieur Rozanov! Monsieur Hollander! Les meilleurs hockeyeurs au monde! - Mr Rozanov! Mr Hollander! The best hockey players in the world!
Vous avez choisi? - Have you chosen? / Are you ready to order?
Un verre de Chardonnay et un verre de Bordeaux, si possible. - A glass of Chardonnay and a glass of Bordeaux, if possible.
Pas de problème, messieurs. Je vous apporte ça tout de suite. - No problem, gentlemen. (I'll bring it to you) Right away.
Va chier - Fuck off / No shit!

here's a video of their walk from the viewpoint to Pont d'Iéna if you wanna see!

thank you so much for reading! let's chat in the comments <3

i'm on threads or on tumblr! i'd love to see you there. ♥

Chapter 4: 9PM

Chapter Notes

thank you so much to Wadji (@Wadjilicious on threads) for answering a couple of Paris-related questions AND for suggesting a place they should visit. ♥

hi! i am ALWAYS so happy you're here. i hope you like this one. ♥

Ilya was fifteen, red-cheeked and gangly-limbed, when his father took them to the Bolshoi Theatre to see Madama Butterfly.

At that time, them always meant Ilya, Grigori himself, and the young woman he was courting, Polina. Closer in age to Ilya than his father, she was equally red-cheeked and seemed particularly overwhelmed against the red velvet seats of their private lower balcony box. Grigori spent the first intermission talking either about Ilya's brother, currently serving his mandatory twelve months in the military, and about his good friend Minister Leonov who graciously gave them these tickets for free.

Polina laughed and hm'd. Her eyes went glassy when the intermission ended and loud Italian filled the open space around them.

Ilya sat in his seat, wringing his clammy palms. He thought about his mother, listened to the arias he didn't understand, and tried not to cry. Promised himself never to cry, promised himself he would get out of here; not the old building of the Bolshoi but the country, forever, amen.

Now, almost ten years later, he remembers it and can't explain why. Maybe it's the golden hour descending over the streets of Paris that reminds him of the stagelights, maybe it's something else. As he follows Shane up the stairs and away from the river, he can almost hear the murmur of the audience before the curtain drew open.

He is no longer that boy.

Shane goes straight on, as if back towards the Eiffel Tower.

Maybe that boy is hidden somewhere inside Ilya, but he's lost track of where. He hasn't gone looking for him in a very long time.

Ilya can still taste Shane on his lips and in the corners of his mouth.

That little boy had really stopped being a boy three years before he got to see Madama Butterfly. The only thing Ilya ever does to recall a trace of him is listening to Maria Callas' soprano. He once played Un bel di vedremo in the Raiders' locker room and everyone thought he was taking a piss, so he laughed along with them.

They cross and take the first left, allowing another wide street to open up in front of them.

Ilya forces himself to shake the memory and ground himself in the present. The sun is slowly descending behind him, but he still has to squint against the world around him. Like an itch, Sochi keeps bouncing around his head and demanding attention. Hearing the word from Shane's mouth was proof enough that it's the same for him, and maybe Ilya got away with a half-kiss this time, but there won't be a next time.

It's silly to think he doesn't owe Shane any explanation. It's silly to think this can be a one-way street that dead-ends with every question Shane might have. Even if Ilya says that Russia is his dead-end, it's still something that needs to be said.

He needs to get out of his head.

Paris is still humming around them. Locals mingle with tourists—there are a couple of suitcases rattling just behind them. A blue sign where the street forks lets Ilya know they are walking down Av. de la Bourdonnais. There is another red awning that shields Café Gustave as it curls around the corner. Right behind it, Ilya spots a souvenir shop.

"Do you like souvenirs?" he asks out of the blue. His voice sounds wrong to him, even though it's only been about ten minutes since he last spoke.

Shane's head jerks towards him in surprise. He must have been equally lost in his thoughts. "Huh?"

Ilya points towards the sop. "Souvenirs. You like them?"

"Oh, um." Shane's eyes go to the shop and then retreat back to their downward glance, not to Ilya's face. "I guess? I used to try and get something everywhere we went to play, but it kinda loses meaning when you spend half of your life on the road."

"That is true. What is the last thing you bought?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Ilya sees Shane's face take on a pinkish hue.

"It was— It was one of those nesting dolls, actually. Back in Sochi."

Something in Ilya's chest flutters. He gives way to a beat of silence, but they can't keep going like this. They can't keep skirting around subjects and feel guilty for saying Sochi, or for acknowledging that they are something beyond all this. It's ridiculous. It's good for nothing.

"Ah, matryoshka," he says flippantly, even though he's not feeling flippant at all. "You're a little bit like that, I think."

Albeit with his eyebrows raised, Shane finally looks at him. "Are you going to call me a fucking onion next?"

Ilya feels his face light up. "Shane, are you a Shrek fan?"

"Oh my God."

"Is a great movie. And you have layers! Maybe you are like matryoshka, nothing wrong with that."

"Aren't they, like, a symbol of fertility and motherhood?"

Ilya's laugh booms at the image and the two pigeons sitting on a trash can nearby take panicked flight. "They can be a symbol of onions for you."

"Fuck you," Shane grumbles, but it doesn't wipe the smile off his face at all.

Ilya's first instinct is to say maybe later, but he bites his lip and stops in his tracks instead. As the air around them calms yet again, it brings about the same familiar thrill of adventure. Ilya forgets about Madama Butterfly and Sochi and all the rest, and basks in Shane's easy presence instead. It's so confusing, the way it can be easy but often isn't, but Ilya is already grabbing it with his hands, clutching it, gripping it.

"I have an idea," he announces for what feels like the hundredth time since they left their hotel. It tickles his belly all the same.

Shane turns to him with a sigh. He looks beautiful with the sun setting in his face. The liquid gold softens his features, and it seems like it's the diminishing sunlight that pulls the corner of his mouth up into a smirk.

"I've never heard that before," Shane jokes.

"Good idea," Ilya clarifies. "I love souvenirs, thank you for asking, Shane, and I want one from Paris."

Shane's smile falters infinitesimally, but Ilya notices. "That sounds pretty harmless for you, actually."

"No, listen. We go in, and we separate. I buy you a souvenir. You buy me a souvenir. We can call them late birthday presents, yes?"

"You know when my birthday is?"

"No," Ilya rushes to say. May tenth, obviously, but everybody knows that. Right? Definitely. "But is not today, is it?"

"I guess not," Shane admits. "Okay. I mean, it's still very harmless for you, so yeah, let's do it."

Ilya has no idea how long these shops usually stay open, but this one is still in business. A family of three steps out just as they're about to enter, and a few others are scattered across the aisles.

"Okay, well, good luck," Shane says under his breath just for Ilya to hear, and he worms his way around an older man speaking loud German, towards the salt-shakers and coasters.

Ilya hangs behind, lurking by the umbrellas and scarves. Obviously, he won't be buying either for Hollander, but he gives himself a moment to breathe out here. Breathe out and consider what Shane might grab for him. A lighter, maybe—but then he wouldn't so obviously support the nicotine habit. Maybe a shot glass with a cheesy design if he wants to be more careful; something huge and cringy like a bag if he wants to make Ilya's life a living hell.

Ilya rolls his shoulders, an invisible fist clamping around his chest, and he steps in. What is he going to do? Something funny and lighthearted; something serious?

The possibilities are endless. There are easy things to buy—pins, keychains, magnets—but something in Ilya pulls him forward and away from those. As with many other things tonight, he can't really understand the reason.

What would somebody like Shane appreciate?

In a past life—or maybe in their regular life outside of this—a pack of condoms with a design of Notre Dame would suffice. It would be a useful item and a crude joke at the same time, and it would allow them to stay within the confines of what they've built for themselves. Which used to be nothing; nothing aside from sex in hotel rooms when chance and the NHL schedule placed them in the same spot. It feels tasteless, now, but that only opens the door to something worse.

Running his fingers through the shirts hanging on a rack towards the left, Ilya is met with the fact that he doesn't really know Shane that well. What he's learned about him tonight—him, his family, the scrambled bits of vague memories—is about the extent of it.

He knows how Shane plays, though, when he's on the ice and focused on hockey.

As a player, Hollander is efficient, concentrated; his stickhandling, speed, and skill are what happens when you put down a levelling tool after a hard day's work and realize you did it perfectly, the angle is straight, you're ready to lay down the foundation of your forever-home.

You just can't buy somebody like that a condom or a magnet for their fridge.

In the end, Ilya settles for a mix of things. He selects a white pin with 'I FELL' in a text bubble above the Eiffel Tower laying on its side—and then the real gift. It's not a souvenir, really, but Ilya thinks it will be appreciated more and that's what matters.

When he exits the shop and its sharp LED lights, Shane is already waiting outside, seemingly kicking the toe of his own shoe, a huge plastic bag swaying in his hand.

"Don't ask," Shane says with a small wave of his hand while his eyes glue themselves to the—markably smaller—bag hanging from around Ilya's wrist. "And don't be funny."

"No, not saying anything," Ilya objects, palms up in defense. "I am the most serious guy. More serious than Scott Hunter."

Shane snickers. "Why are you always picking on him, anyway?"

"Because he is old enough to remember the Big Bang. He knows the secrets of the universe, probably, but he won't share with the rest of us."

"You're so fucking ridiculous," Shane responds, but there's endearment in his voice. The sharp edge between teasing and insulting is leaning towards the first more and more and Ilya likes the glint of it very much. "I thought you wouldn't believe in the Big Bang, anyway, what with the cross you wear and stuff."

"That is very ignorant thing to say," Ilya says through the rush of blood in his ears. He remembers promising to answer, should Shane ask, and here they are. As if still trying to run away from it, he sets off walking in the same direction as before. "But I'm not religious, so."

Shane catches up without problem, falling into step next to him. "Why do you wear it, then?"

"People say you are quiet," Ilya mumbles, "but you are nosy as fuck. So many questions all the time."

Shane doesn't dignify it with a response, but he doesn't seem to turn inward, either. That's what happened the last time Ilya tried to deflect—it was like watching a flower wilt.

Ilya hums and clears his throat. "The cross is my mother's," he says.

Ilya has not talked about his mother in years. Not even with Svetlana, who sometimes asks about her. Come to think of it, Svetlana is the only person who knows—other than his family back in Russia—and Ilya still hides from it like a worm trying to find a crack in the pavement. And that's a friend. Ilya's known her longer than anybody; she is the only person in the world who has seen him as a child, as a teenager, as a hockey player, as every iteration of Ilya Rozanov that's ever existed. Nobody else can say that, and yet.

And yet here he is, opening his mouth and admitting to the existence of a mother. To Shane Hollander.

Shane Hollander, who says: "Oh, okay, makes sense, I guess," and continues walking.

Ilya rubs his palms against the sides of his shorts. In the shade of the street and the setting sun, he's been a little chilly; even the sweat on his hands is cold.

"Maybe we could… find someplace to buy food?" Shane suggests after a few minutes of pleasant quiet. "Before it's only the supermarkets and nightclubs and stuff that's open."

At the mention of eating, Ilya's stomach curls in on itself and gives a loud groan of assent. "Sounds good," he agrees.

But the Avenue seems to narrow, and the only place they come across is yet another red awning curling around yet another corner; it's out in the open, the streets sprawl out in all directions like a maze. Across the street stands a mirror: awning, corner, the whole circus. Neither of them feels inclined to opt for it. Their wine not-a-date sits in their stomach as an extra meal that can't sate them, and Ilya, for one, is not looking for a repeat performance.

Shane gives a frustrated huff, moving the plastic bag from one hand to the other. He's looking around as if lost; a few strands of hair that cut over his forehead seem tangled with sweat.

"Happy middle?" Ilya suggests gently. "Let's go there, I'm sure there will be something." He's pointing, less than fervently, at one of the streets that run between the two awnings.

"Okay, yeah," Shane says and Ilya watches him blink and then blink again. Almost like he was trying to look away from his own thoughts.

The street they escape to quickly takes them away from the loud traffic, but that's pretty much all. Shane calms next to Ilya, though, and that is not nothing. It feels darker here somehow; maybe it's the parked cars that hug the sidewalk, maybe it's the buildings that appear bigger and taller, like trolls turned into stone in all that afternoon sunlight. The green sign of a pharmacy flashes at Ilya from the left, but what other shops rent on this Avenue have closed. Tucked away, red-chained and dark-glassed, they yawn with after-hours emptiness.

Another pharmacy, again on the left.

For the first time this evening, Ilya feels like he's existing outside of his body. Or maybe like he's a little bigger than his skin accounts for and whatever his mind is is left hovering an inch above it. It might be jetlag, it might be the futility of what they're doing—regardless, he stops paying attention and the toe of his shoe catches on the lip of a hole in the sidewalk. The ground suddenly seems much closer than it should be.

Shane grabs Ilya's elbow and pulls him back before he can fall down and give gravity a chance to flatten him like a pancake. His fingers dig into skin and curve around bone with more power than needed. It's shockingly grounding.

"Are you a toddler?" Shane asks, more bark than bite. "Do I need to put knee pads on you, Rozanov?"

"You can't save my life if you put knee pads on me," Ilya chirps back.

Shane's hand is still firm around his elbow. "Yeah? Is that what I did just now?"

"Mhm, obviously. Paris streets are a great hazard."

"I guess they are if you're not looking."

Despite himself, Ilya looks down. It is not the first time he's seen Hollander's fingers wrapping around his body. They've dug into his biceps, left scratch marks on his back, held the base of his cock while the mouth did the rest. Ilya shakes off the memory, but he can't make himself wiggle out of the grip.

What would it be like to walk down this street with his hand in mine? he wonders briefly, secretly. Would it be so bad if it stayed there and held me down the rest of the way? Held me here?

"Hero Shane Hollander," Ilya says instead, returning to the safety of banter.

Shane scoffs. He finally lets go. All Ilya can do is try and convince himself that his heart is thumping so hard because of his body's response to the almost-fall, not because he was skin-to-skin with Hollander for a few fucking seconds.

They cross the street. Absent-mindedly, Ilya is twisting the handles of the plastic bag around his hand. "You would be a good coach," he hears himself say.

"Because I didn't let you eat shit off a random street?" Shane shakes his head. "Nope, you're not getting rid of me that easily, I got plenty of hockey left in me."

"No, I know that. I mean you notice things, and you help people up. That's good in a coach, I think."

Shane looks at him sideways in mock disbelief, but he can't quite contort his face into an expression of disdain. Ilya sees, suddenly, that part of Shane wants to believe it, or rather—is willing to take Ilya seriously.

At least before his eyes flee again and look around instead of at Ilya's face.

And it's a shame. Always a shame when Shane Hollander looks away. He is stingy with his glances; his eyes seek surface elsewhere almost all of the time. Then, when he looks at you—really looks at you—you can be sure he means it. You can be sure every part of him wants to see you, and being seen by him—it's a physical sensation that rolls through you like a tidal wave. Ilya misses it every time it retreats.

"Would you look at that?" Shane asks with wonder in his voice.

"What? What did you see?"

Shane points, his entire forearm going straight and up. The plastic bag sways like a balloon. He's steering Ilya's gaze towards a pillar with a delicate relief on its front.

Ilya tilts his head.

"Just come closer," Shane urges.

They approach it hastily and halt at a row of parked bikes that stand in front of it.

"I don't get it, Shane," Ilya says dryly.

"It just… It reminded me of the statue you told me about," Shane explains. "I know this is not what Pushkin and his wife looked like—I mean, probably—but that's a weird fucking coincidence that you told me about it and now we run across this, right?"

There are reliefs and statues all over Paris, Hollander. We would say делать из мухи слона. You are making an elephant out of a fly. Mountain out of molehill, yes?

Ilya says none of that. Instead, he keeps his head tilted and hums. The relief has the woman on the left and the man on the right—from Ilya's point of view—and that's the first (and smallest) discrepancy. The woman's hair is pulled up, but whoever carved her out gave it the quality of luscious waves; her robes fall down her body like water; there is a snake curling around her forearm. The man next to her would be fully fucking buck-naked if not for a flimsy piece of fabric that defies gravity to cover up his crotch.

"Da, I see it," Ilya muses in the end. "I think Pushkin was sexy just like this. Maybe liked exhibitionism."

Shane playfully nudges him in the shoulder. "You're being an asshole again."

"Do you like exhibitionism, Shane?" Ilya asks with a playful smirk.

"What? No." But his face becomes flushed again, betraying him.

"You are blushing," Ilya comments, satisfied. "Maybe you do a bit. We should talk about this more, I am very interested."

"The only thing we're talking about is food and eating."

Ilya's teeth come down and bite into his lower lip. "Eating what?"

"Dinner. God. You're… Eating dinner, Ilya."

"I mean—"

"Don't say you can eat ass for dinner. Do not."

It takes everything in Ilya's power not to start laughing. Instead, he innocently points behind him, and even though he was very much trying to say that, he plays it cool. He says: "I wanted to say, Shane—can I quote myself?"

"You didn't say anything, how do you want to quote— Sure. Just go ahead."

"I mean, there is nice place right behind us, you didn't notice?"

Like clockwork, they both turn around on their heels to stare across the street. The only thing Ilya noticed while passing the place were the warm lights emanating from inside, but he still feels his interest pique when looking at it now. MAISON BERGERON, says the sign on the establishment's gray awning. He sees pastries in the window display, shelves half-empty.

"I think they're just about to close," Shane points out. It's only then that some of the staff come into view; the shelves are half-empty because they're actively being taken apart.

"We can be quick," Ilya insists. Suddenly, he wants nothing more than a real French pastry in his mouth. Soft and buttery and perfect.

"Ilya, we really shouldn't bother them if they're closing, it's rude…"

Ilya waves his hand, already not listening. He looks both ways even though it's a one-way street and hops across, hoping that Hollander will follow.

It's true—the place is empty, and when he crosses the threshold, the young brown-skinned woman looks at him with a question mark on her face before she gives him a tired smile. She says something in very polite-sounding French, which Ilya can only interpret as 'please leave immediately'.

And normally, he would. He really would. But Shane Hollander is just behind him and he wants proper food.

"I'm sorry," Ilya says. He takes special care to make his accent heavier than it already is; maybe she will pity him. "Can I be really very horrible and buy some of your leftovers? I tip so well, I promise."

Ilya bounces on his heels and stares up at the beautiful ceiling and decor while she silently communicates with the white guy who's just taking precious croissants off the display and placing them delicately into a basket. They must come to an agreement, because she ends up shrugging.

Switching to English, she says: "I can only offer what we've got out and I can't warm anything up for you, unfortunately."

Ilya beams. "That is okay! Thank you so much, ma'am."

"I didn't know you could be so polite," Shane chirps next to him; apparently, he's deemed the environment safe and decided to join him.

"Oh, parents love me," Ilya whispers back to him.

Ilya takes two of the ham and cheese sandwiches; Shane two of the ones bursting with tomatoes and mozzarella. It would be all if Ilya didn't step closer to the display and ask for the leftover sad-looking pain au chocolate, one slice of apple pie, and 'all of these' while pointing at five… whatever kouign-amann is.

Thanking them profoundly—both verbally and with a seventy-percent tip—they both hurry out of the boulangerie. It feels like they're proper tourists, now. Both hands full, bags everywhere.

Dusk has nudged itself into the corners of the world, but there is still enough—just enough—daylight to go by. The only thing they need is to find someplace to sit down, eat, exchange gifts, be stupid about all of this just because they can.

"There are gardens on the other side of the Eiffel Tower. Or a park, I guess." Shane says, looking in the direction they came from. "We should be able to find a spot there."

While they retrace their steps, instead of companionable silence, Shane teases Ilya about buying five of something he's never even heard of before, and Ilya says they have to be hamsters now, "Hamsters?" Shane asks like it's more ridiculous than anything Hayden Pike ever says (as Ilya tells him), and yes, hamsters, they have to stock up on food. So maybe like bears? Before the winter? Maybe, and are there any bears in Canada?

Small-talk, stupid and innocent, floats around them the length of the street.

It quiets down when they arrive back at the big fork, amid the red awnings. At this angle, Ilya sees the very top of the Eiffel Tower peeking from around the building opposite, and his eyes follow the easiest way to get there. It's fascinating to him, the way all this architecture—old and expensive, at least at first glance—exists right next to busy roads and two-lane roundabouts. Ilya knows many things, but the existence of old next to new, of past next to present, is as foreign to him as kouign-amann. Even a fleeting thought like this tastes sour in his mouth.

To his surprise, Shane leads him around and farther away from the Tower.

"Do you know it here?" he asks. Shane's step is confident when he guides them to the right. Gravel crunches under their shoes as they veer towards narrower pathways.

"No," Shane replies simply. "But there should be tucked-away places here, right? They're in all the parks, so I don't see why — yeah, I was right." He aims for a bench, empty and nestled between bushes.

It is mere feet away from the larger greenspace that lounges directly in front of the Tower, but there is none of the buzz here. They've left the people taking pictures on the lawns behind; their blankets that Ilya saw out of the corner of his eye, their chatter, their bottles of wine and their baseballs to toss while waiting for the sunset.

It's darker here, too, in this little pocket. The sky is a hue somewhere between blue and purple, pinkish undertones outlining the horizon and bruising into a deep shade of orange.

Ilya picks the farther side of the bench, bending one leg and sitting on it while the other keeps digging into the gravel. When Shane sits down next to him, the Tower seems to sit on his shoulder.

"Food first or gifts?" Ilya asks. He is hungry for both.

"Um, gifts maybe? I also bought antibacterial hand gel but it's probably at the bottom of the bag, so."

Ilya rolls his eyes but plops his own bag on the bench between them. "You first. Happy late birthday, Shane."

There's apprehension pressing itself into the lines of Shane's face while he spreads the plastic bag wide open. It crinkles when he buries one hand in it and fishes out the pin. He smirks, which is more than Ilya has been hoping for.

"That's so stupid," Shane comments. But it's warm, inexplicably warm, and he fiddles with it until it clips open. He puts it directly over the Reebok logo and doesn't even prick his fingers with the sharp end. The strings of his hoodie dangle above it like ropes trying to catch the Tower and pull it back upright.

Through a smile that Ilya isn't even trying to fight, he says: "You like it."

Shane doesn't say anything, and that is response enough. He dives back in with his hand and pulls out the other thing—the real thing.

"A map?" he asks.

"Yes. For later," Ilya explains.

Shane looks up, his eyes anchoring on Ilya's face. "For later?" he asks again. Amusement skids out of him and one corner of his mouth is still up in that same smirk.

"You said you will have to look on Wikipedia later, yes? So I bought you this nice foldable waterproof map," he is definitely reading that off the front design, "so you can look at it later and remember. Where we walked. I am sure you're logging the street names somewhere in there." He nods at Shane's head.

"That's—"

"But is not for planning ahead. No looking until after, okay?"

"Ilya, that's really sweet," Shane says, finishing his sentence. It's not okay but it's not no, either. "That's, like, a really thoughtful gift."

Ilya shrugs. "I thought about it, that's true."

"Thoughtful means you care," Shane says, barely above a whisper. And he's looking at Ilya in a way that he never has before. Briefly, Ilya wonders if he has ever been looked at this way in general, and the possibility of no scares him deep to his core. He is the one, now, who tries not to look away.

"Da," he says instead, "I know."

Something hangs in the air between them; something not fully removed from the moment by the Seine, where Ilya thought he was going to go insane if they didn't kiss right away.

Shane is leaning in, even, just a little bit, but when his eyes fall down to Ilya's mouth—is it possible for your lips to start burning when someone looks at them?—he quickly blinks and pulls away. He's holding the map close to his chest, presenting his own bag for inspection.

"Should I look for your antibacterial hand gel?" Ilya teases.

Shane rolls his eyes. "Sorry, no. Happy belated birthday, Ilya."

"Thank you! I almost thought you forgot."

Impatiently, and maybe a little overzealously, he tears into the plastic. His fingers sink into fabric right away. It suddenly makes sense that the bag was so big: Ilya pulls out a deep-blue hoodie. I ♥ PARIS, it says on the front, across the whole chest. Ilya is holding it unfolded in front of his face and staring with his mouth agape. It is so ridiculous that he might just fall in love with it.

"I, um… I saw you were cold a while back? And you don't have anything to put on, so…"

"Is perfect," Ilya rushes to say. Without prompting, he turns it around and pulls it over his head. It smells like souvenir shops and warehouses and cheap fabric, but it's thick and warm against his skin immediately.

"Check the pocket," Shane says with a bashful look on his face. He's busying his hands with fishing out the gel and putting the bags away.

The hoodie only has a little pouch in the front, so it's not that difficult to find what he's supposed to be looking for. It's a fake Zippo with a design of the Eiffel Tower on it, and it feels strangely light in his hand.

"For later," Shane clarifies.

"Mm, of course."

Ilya can just about imagine. In two days' time, sneaking away into the smoking area at the airport, lighting a cigarette in unbreathable air just so he can feel the lighter in his hand and remind himself of a time when he felt alive.

Because he feels so alive. More alive than on the ice. But he wants to entertain that thought about as much as the thought of using this lighter, which is to say not at all.

"Thank you," he says.

Shane still looks softer. It's almost as if he were standing on the doorstep of a warm cabin in the dead of winter, ready to step in and warm his fingers by the fireplace. Ilya is always tempted to close any doors that he might have left open on accident, but he finds himself refraining from doing so. If he can keep this softness, even for just a little bit longer, he can't refuse it; he is incapable.

"We should eat," Shane says after a moment. His voice carries that same softness, and it is terrible. Terrible because it's not something Ilya can touch and stow away in his pocket, for later.

He agrees silently.

The world grows darker and darker around them as they bite into their sandwiches, but it's a pleasant, buzzy darkness that feels like a hug.

Ilya feels alive, yes, but a big part of him feels free.

He is just about done with the first sandwich—it's so good even though it was technically leftover from who knows when—when the sun sets with finality. It does it every day—it disappears beyond the horizon like it's never going to be seen again, its descent inevitable, only to rise again.

It takes a minute or so extra for the Eiffel Tower to light up in the distance.

When it does, it seems to shimmer—no ugly metal anymore, just lights dancing up and down her length. Ilya watches in wonder. It is a quiet, embarrassed wonder. Ilya's just won the fucking Stanley Cup, one landmark should not be doing this to him, especially not such a cliche one.

The lights aren't strong enough to fall over Shane's head and cascade in fractured pieces over his face and shoulders, but Ilya looks to him, anyway.

He remembers that little boy at the Bolshoi once more.

He looks back to the Tower—this time, Shane does as well.

"I stay on the edge of the hill," Ilya says quietly, "and I wait, and I wait a long time." He can feel Shane's eyes snapping back to him, but he tries to ignore them. "But I do not grow weary of the long wait."

"When did your English get so good?" Shane asks, voice low, breathless.

"Is just lyrics from Madama Butterfly." Ilya tries, but he can't make himself shrug like it's nothing. "I saw it when I was fifteen, with my father and Polina. My, ah, machekha." He snaps his fingers to trigger his mental vocabulary. "My stepmother."

"Your stepmother?" Shane presses gently. It feels like when you put your fingers against an apple or a peach to check if it's ripe yet, or overripe already. Tender, kind; you don't want to damage the skin or break it.

"She is much younger than my father," Ilya grits out. He looks back at Shane and—maybe, if he squints, he can guess at the Tower's lights reaching him and underlining his features. Such openness, there, almost as if Ilya wasn't supposed to open or close any doors after all. Just walk through the one Shane's keeping ajar instead. "My mother died when I was twelve."

"I'm so sorry," Shane says. His face doesn't scrunch up into pity or panic. It remains the same kind of open, his eyes wide. He's not scared. He simply shuffles closer and mirrors Ilya's pose—leg up, sitting on it—until their knees touch. "Do you wanna tell me the story of Madame Butterfly?"

And so Ilya does.

THE ROUTE / THEIR BENCH

Chapter End Notes

suspension of belief for this chapter 🥐

i want to be upfront about any changes i'm making/any stretching i'm doing, so: i do not know how big that souvenir shop is or how long it's open, we're just going with the flow. the boulangerie they visit is open until 8:15, but for the sake of this fic, we're pretending it's 9:15 instead. i also can't trace *when* exactly they opened, but we can BELIEVE it was open back in 2014. thank u for ur understanding ilysm.

HHHHHOW ARE WE FEELING. writing this chapter almost killed me for some reason, but it also almost made me cry and i've literally manipulated myself into wanting to see madama butterfly on stage, idek. what are these two doing to me.

my translation of the lyrics is a mix of what i found on genius + liveabout.com. wanna walk around champ de mars and see where i grabbed the screenshot of their bench? it's here. :)

if you're enjoying this, please do leave a comment/kudo if you have the time and/or energy, i appreciate it so much. ♥

i'm on threads or on tumblr! i'd love to see you there. ♥

Chapter 5: 10PM

Chapter Notes

hi! i'm sooo happy you're here. ♥ i hope you enjoy this longer one - i kind of like her a lot.

Le Tourville is packed. The tables are small, the chairs are wobbly, and there is greenery behind Shane that keeps poking him in his left ear. As if that wasn't enough, they only found one empty spot right in the front row, so he feels perched on the sidewalk like an exhibit.

At least the lights at this cafe are mild and warm-toned.

Whatever chatter surrounds him is underlined by the constant buzz from the bus stop right in front of the café. It feels different than before, though, even now that Shane is sitting here alone while Ilya's in the bathroom. So far removed from the hotel lobby, where the noise around him resembled nothing but insects. Far from pleasant here, too, but different.

His chest feels lighter despite everything.

There's a part of Shane's brain that wants him to panic. It reminds him, regularly, of the circumstances. You are in a city you don't know, it tells him. You don't have a plan, you don't know where you're going, he's your arch rival, you should be asleep.

It's like knuckles incessantly rapping on a door. They come at various intervals, but Shane's been good at keeping them locked out.

Maybe it's because most of them don't ring true anymore, at least not in the context he's settled into. The plan is vague, sure, but it feels like the skeleton of it is there. Where he's going is less and less important with every step he takes. And allowing his brain to call Ilya his arch rival feels preposterous.

He's still not a fan of the nagging sensation, and it's more difficult to fight it when he's alone. What if he just leaves you here?

But he wouldn't. This Ilya is so different from the one Shane knew from Sochi. So different, even, from the one at the hotel. He was quoting a fucking opera libretto not thirty minutes ago, and it's still making Shane shiver whenever he remembers it. Someone like that would not leave him here alone. He wouldn't get up and walk away and then not answer a text for six months.

But he did.

Shane sighs and squirms in his chair even though it threatens to fall apart under him. He decides to busy his hands while he waits.

From the pocket of his (now incognito) Reebok hoodie, he pulls out the map Ilya gifted him. Being pressed against his body has made it warm to the touch, and it feels like Ilya has been holding it this whole time. He pulls out a pen, too. This Ilya doesn't know: Shane bought a little notepad with a Van Gogh painting on it, and a pen riddled with the word PARIS in various fonts. His original plan was to scribble down every location they stop at, in secret, whenever he can, but the map makes it easier.

He unfolds it and lays it across the table, nudging their double-espresso cups out of the way. The corners still hang over like lapels, but he thinks he needs to focus on the middle, anyway. Clicking the pen open, he absent-mindedly grabs one of the hoodie strings. As he looks along the river to pinpoint the Eiffel Tower, he taps the plastic end of it against his lips. Nudge, nudge, dig in. But Paris is huge. By the time he finally finds it by the patch of greenery of Champ de Mars, the string is fully in his mouth. He bites down on it and circles the Tower in a thin blue streak.

The buzzing around him transforms into a low hum. He marks Champ de Mars with an X, then traces Avenue de La Bourdonnais until he gets to where he thinks the boulangerie is. X again.

Shane's just trying to make sense of North and South and which bridge that would place them under by the Seine when the chair next to him scrapes and Ilya's presence settles into the space next to him.

"What is this?" Ilya asks incredulously.

"Well, it's just—um—"

"Did you steal this pen?" he continues, grabbing it directly out of Shane's hand and inspecting it. "Poor five-year-old girl has no pen now."

"No, stop." Shane huffs and yanks the pen back. He clicks it closed, but mostly he's scrambling to fold the map back while not tearing it or crumpling it where it's not supposed to be crumpled.

Ilya leans back in his chair. "It was for later." Finally, at least, he says what he really means.

Shane can feel his cheeks burning up. He's never liked explaining himself—to anybody, from his parents to the reporters interviewing him after a game. He wants to pull on those hoodie strings and cover his entire face to escape—he worries, really worries that pulling out the map has hurt Ilya's feelings. He opts for biting his lip instead.

What can he say other than the truth? Even if telling the truth is scary because he still struggles with knowing where or what they are.

"No," Shane says again. He looks around, as if checking the perimeter, before he lets his eyes land on Ilya's face. "I just don't want to forget."

Ilya's gaze clicks into his. "You never forget anything."

"No, I don't," Shane agrees with a small snicker, "but what if? It's easy for me to remember how many points somebody scored during their season five, ten years ago, I'm in it every day, but I don't know Paris that well. I don't know the names of these streets. What if I don't mark it now and can't remember later?"

Something flashes across Ilya's face. Shane frowns as if trying to hold the brief expression in the knot of his brows, like maybe that would help him understand. It's too fleeting, though. Too fast to be able to decipher if it's surprise, or pain, or acknowledgment. Recognition, maybe? Unless he was trying not to laugh at the desperation in Shane's voice.

Shane leans in, but whatever it was is long gone.

"What were you looking for?" Ilya asks, nodding towards the map.

Shane gulps. He carefully unfolds it again, smoothens it down with his palms on the table. "The bridge," he says, small. "Where you — um, where we…"

He can't find the words, but Ilya seems to understand. He's already looking down at the paper, sucking in his cheeks in concentration. It gives Shane a moment to look again. He's stolen so many of these side-glances that he can't count them anymore, but each time feels new. Shane's eyes trace the line of his cheekbone and then travel up to his curls again. There is something so touchable about the strands of hair that sit across his forehead. They're the most prominent ones, but Shane looks at the rest, too: the curls that ruffle the top of his head, the ones that sit on the sides. Barely, he can see a few sticking up every which way around the nape of his neck.

They're all even messier now that Ilya has pulled the hoodie over his head a few times, too warm one second and cold the next.

Shane is familiar with the phantom itching in his fingers. It's there under his hockey gloves sometimes, it makes them tremble during elevator rides up to Ilya's hotel room, it's been constant since Trocadéro. Now, though, it stops feeling very phantom. It turns into something real, and all Shane wants is to touch. Tuck an especially rebellious strand behind his ear, run all digits through the hair, hope for knots to keep them there.

Grab Ilya's wrist and make him do the same.

"Is here," Ilya says, always pulling Shane out from inside his head. "Gimme the pen."

With a small smile, Shane obliges. Like it's no big deal, Ilya draws a humongous X next to Passerelle Debilly.

"You sure?" Shane asks, pulling the map closer towards him. The bridge looks so tiny—too tiny to imagine that he sat underneath it and let himself be kissed.

"Yes," Ilya huffs. "We walked here," he tries, finger tracing the port, "this is all the buses, and we sit down here."

Their shoulders are touching, but should anyone see them, they would simply look like two tourists hunched over their itinerary.

"You're good with this," Shane marvels. Their eyes meet over the streets of Paris below them, and Ilya has a mischievous little smirk perched in the corner of his mouth. "Like, really good."

Tap-tap, goes the pen as Ilya almost nervously clicks and unclicks it against the table. "I am the best at everything."

"Not everybody can read maps. Hayden would probably get lost in Montreal without his GPS."

Ilya rolls his eyes and groans low in his throat. Tap-tap, goes the pen. "Pike gets lost on the ice. He is left wing but Shane, I don't think he knows what left and right is." Tap-tap, again.

It's Shane's turn to roll his eyes, but he does so with a grin. "I don't care if he knows it's called left so long as he can intercept a pass between you and some other brainless Raider."

"This has never happened before," Ilya exclaims. His eyes are all shiny with humor. "Are you sure?"

"It's happened plenty!"

"Maybe you need to get your eyes checked."

"Oh yeah?"

Tap-tap, goes the pen. "Mmm, yes, but he might tell you no more hockey, prescription too big, sensitive to arena lights…" Tap-tap-tap.

Shane can't stand the sound anymore, so he impulsively covers Ilya's palm with his to stop it. No other reason. None. "Nah, I told you you're not getting rid of me that easily."

While Ilya's body tenses, he doesn't put in any effort to get his hand out. The clicking stops, and his smile turns quizzical.

The thing is that Shane doesn't love being looked at, either. In fact, there is a whole list of things that he doesn't like, and being looked at wouldn't even make the top, but Ilya makes it easier. It's always been one of his most frustrating qualities; more frustrating than his skill and definitely more frustrating than his arrogance. It's made Shane open doors, arch his back, get on his knees. Most of all, it's made it easy to put the blame of all these acts on somebody else, as if anybody forced Shane's hand to the doorknob or pushed his body down.

The past few hours have cleared a lot of things up, including the fact that Shane is the one who makes the executive decision to follow.

Just like his eyes follow Ilya's now, even as Ilya tilts his head and changes the angle. Shane suddenly can't look away.

"Why are you so good at maps?" he asks, hating how fond he sounds.

Hating, a little, that asking is easier now. That things have shifted, and operas have been quoted, and memories have been shared. It brings the idea of tomorrow closer than it's been, and Shane feels a small seed of dread settle in his stomach. Already.

Ilya shrugs. How long are they going to get away with touching for?

"C'mon. Tell me," Shane presses.

"Do you remember Saskatchewan?" Ilya asks.

"Yeah, of course I remember."

What doesn't get said out loud: He remembers going home and still thinking about Rozanov with a cigarette in his mouth. He remembers his own clammy hands and he remembers feeling so awkward; remembers shaking the hand he's holding now twice. He remembers all of it.

"I bought a map." The P smacks Ilya's lips together. "At the airport on the way back, a map of North America. It was a big book, mm, does English say atlas too?" Shane nods, and Ilya smirks a little sadder now. "Was draft year, after all."

"Weren't you busy enough playing hockey?"

Ilya shakes his head. "No, I mean, yes. But I had to look, I don't know…" He waves his hand. While his eyes stay on Shane's face, his wrist flicks with frustration, or not knowing—or wanting to say—the right word.

"Maybe look ahead and try to plan your next move?" Shane supplies.

"Nyet, no, I don't think so. But I looked at Montréal, and Toronto, and Boston, New York... I even looked at Buffalo one time."

"Wow, must have been a bad night," Shane teases quietly, "their team is terrible."

Ilya scoffs, but the joke seems to have delighted him. "Yes. But I looked at the streets and big buildings and imagined my life. Was stupid," he says at the end. His hand, at last, wiggles away. He leans back and rolls his shoulders. "Just stupid kid behavior."

"I don't think it's stupid at all," Shane tries, but he thinks he'd have to talk to that Ilya in the past for it to matter any. It's just hard to tell if that kid is still in there at all. So instead, he tries again: "So you don't need GPS in Montréal."

Ilya latches on immediately, if halfheartedly. "Don't compare me to Pike ever again," he says; almost means it. Throws a little brown sugar baggy right at Shane's face. "Do you want another coffee?"

"Yeah, sure. Long night ahead of us."

Even as it grows ever shorter.

They remain hunched over the map until they've marked every spot. Two blue snakes slither across the paper: one close to their hotel, abruptly disappearing into the metro; the other starting down the long line of Avenue Kléber and winding down all the way to here. Le Tourville, Place de l'École Militaire—Avenue de la Motte-Picquet sitting behind them. Seeing it so clear doesn't make it feel any different.

It's another coffee later. Shane is the one to carefully fold it again and put it back in his pocket.

"Sooo, no plan?" Ilya confirms.

"No. But maybe we could go?"

"Yes, maybe." Ilya peels his body away, and it's only now that Shane realizes how close together they've been sitting.

Briefly, he wonders whether his clothes will smell like Ilya Rozanov. He'll fold them and put them in his suitcase and then, maybe when he opens it back home in Ottawa for the summer, he'll catch a distant whiff of the fresh outside air, the now-familiar scent of Paris, and mixed in with it all, remnants of skin, sweat and cologne.

Shane insists on paying—just like he's insisted on sticking to English just this one time—and they leave Le Tourville in its rightful spot by the bus stop. He only turns around one more time to look at the head of the Eiffel Tower, glittering in the settling dark, peeking over the buildings across the square.

Small discomfort settles in his belly as they start walking again. There's a good chance he's only felt so at ease because he's been here before—not on these exact streets, maybe, but in the general vicinity. Leaving the tallest landmark he recognizes to sit in the dark by herself makes his stomach feel uneasy.

Though that might just be the two coffees.

They don't discuss where they're going, and there are no signs to consult, either. Over a shaky breath or two, Shane tells himself that it doesn't matter.

If nothing else, falling into the same rhythm side-by-side feels comforting. It's less buzzy here, too, even though the Avenue is still wide and open. So much of Paris looks the same to him but feels so vastly different.

Shane's fingers are a little jittery, but he can definitely blame the coffee for that—the coffee and the jet lag that's starting to catch up with him. Parts of his body feel worn out like the back of a phone case or a faux leather wallet that's been carried in backpockets for years. He feels it in his legs, too, as they continue down the winding street. But he lets his mind float above the ache in his calves and thighs, and the tree-lined sidewalk. He's not thinking about anything. The same way his mind wanders, so does he.

With everything coated in the descending dark, it's harder to discern the time. Shane knows they left the cafe at around twenty past ten—if the clock on their counter was anything to go by—but they can have been walking for five minutes, or ten, or fifteen.

The street lamps flicker on just as they approach a large junction. Being present for that moment reminds Shane of one time during the summer in Lanaudière. He must have been ten or so, because the memory is clear enough to hold.

He was out in the yard of their family cottage. The day: sunny, blue-skyed, pressingly warm. Shane: alone, kicking a football against the wall despite his mother's concerns about the old stucco. The wind picked up out of nowhere, ruffling his hair and tearing him away from the game even though he'd been counting the kicks. It stopped him at seventy-three, which was not a satisfying number at all, but the air cooled down too quickly and made him turn around.

Big clouds were rolling in fast, seeping the sky in murky grey. He watched it with wonder, suddenly happy to be unaccompanied, and saw as they broke. Rain came down as if through a big-eyed sieve, fat drops falling like a curtain across the fields not far from him. The blurry sheet kept approaching and approaching, and Shane found himself walking towards it until he stopped at the end of the garden and waited. And then there was a moment stuck in time, Shane with his arms outstretched to the sides—his left soaked in the heavy downpour, his right still waiting. It couldn't have been more than a second or two, but Shane still remembers it taking a lifetime.

Right now, too, as Paris officially switches into night mode, the nanosecond stretches. Makes him feel like he's in two places at once, or maybe like he's got one foot still in daytime while the other one is stepping into moonlight.

That sudden summer storm meant nothing. This feels like a thick line between before and after.

They come to a natural halt near the crosswalk. The streetlamp above reflects against a stand with ads, and that's what draws Shane in while Ilya looks around.

The first one is for a concert that happened a few days ago. White background, four pixelated heads, red blocky letters saying limpbizkit. Shane's never heard of them. The ad moves and is replaced by a crimson-colored poster. The letters on this one are a strange combination of color—olive drowning in an outline of amber. REVIVEZ ENSEMBLE LES PLUS GRANDS CONCERTS PROJECTÉS EN HD SUR GRAND ÉCRAN, it says. Relive the biggest concerts together, in HD on the big screen. Metallica, Muse, Queen.

Beginning on the 16th of July, it says at the bottom. Not for another week.

The ad switches back again.

"Where were you?" Shane asks without preamble, even though they're not both looking at the same thing. He enjoys giving Ilya the space to catch up if he wants to. He nods towards the limpbizkit poster to make it easier. 3 JUILLET, it says.

"Ah, in Boston," Ilya says. "I think. Nowhere special. What about you?"

Shane feels himself smile. "I was in Ottawa," he says. "I'm— I'm actually finishing up a project. Well, not me, but we're — I'm having a cottage built in Lanaudière."

"Mm, the return of Mr. Businessman?"

A blush creeps into Shane's cheeks. "No, it's for me. I wanted something for the summer, away from Montréal. Something private. I think they were tiling the en-suite bathroom on the 3rd."

"Fancy," Ilya muses. He looks at Shane sideways, though. There seems to be a question hidden in his glance.

And truth be told, Shane is already opening his mouth to say something crazy. Something like, maybe you could come over next summer. Spend it with me. The furniture will still smell new, nobody will have slept in my bed. It would only know you and me together in it.

The scrolling sign screeches as the display changes. Back to the crimson color.

Ilya's eyes snap away and quickly scan it. "Where are you going to be?" he asks, the 16th of July date staring back at them.

"Shooting a Rolex ad in New York, I think? Not sure about the dates." And he doesn't want to think about it too hard, either. "You? Where will you be?"

Ilya's jaw clenches. It's more pronounced in this light when he grits his teeth. "Russia," he answers simply. The sound is no kinder than it was before.

Shane's gut reaction is to retreat. If he doesn't ask, he can't be rejected, and that's the safer of two options. But there is a side of him that refuses.

"Are you… happy to go back?" he asks. He keeps his eyes pointed at the scrolling sign, and he hopes his interest sounds genuine. He feels the memory of the Vegas rooftop again, tugging at his body with urgency. That was the last time, wasn't it? The last time Ilya tried to talk about Russia without blatant dismissal. Shane was tipsy, Shane was drunk, Shane was rookie of the year; he forgot how to wrap his words around a question mark. He understands that version of himself, but he hopes not to be him now.

Ilya shrugs. "Doesn't matter."

"Is it safe for you? To be there?"

"Why?" He looks at Shane full-on, eyes sharp. "Because I fucked you in your secret fuck apartment in Montreal, Hollander?"

Shane shivers and pulls away. "That is not what I meant—"

"No, sorry." Ilya breathes out, and a small sound at the back of his throat betrays whatever he's trying to hide by rolling his shoulders and closing his eyes. "I don't know, Shane. I try not to think about it."

"About being safe?"

"About Russia." He sighs. Takes a few steps away from the rolling ads and towards the building behind them. It is ridiculous to be talking about this in public—it's not as though Parisians don't speak English and can't overhear them—but it's been proven time and time again that they can't talk about it anywhere. "I don't talk about it because I don't want to think about it."

Encouraged by hearing the soft sound of his own name, Shane joins Ilya by the building. Ilya leans against it, but Shane remains standing by him, untethered. "Is it… complicated?"

Ilya scoffs. "Yes. Very."

"Bad type of complicated?"

Their eyes meet. After a beat of hesitation, Ilya nods. It's like he's trying to say something important with nothing but his pursed lips and with his eyes wide open.

"My father is sick," Ilya says in the end. "I think. He forgets things. Forgets I am in US, forgets about my brother, forgets that my mother…" He shakes his head. "I just don't know."

"I'm sorry," Shane offers gently. He worried that his voice is too soft and it will only push Ilya away. His heart is hammering, and one of his hands is squeezing the map of Paris like he's trying to choke it. "That sounds… hard."

In an attempt to hide, Ilya looks to the side.

"Ilya," Shane starts, and he knows it's stupid, he knows he shouldn't say it, he's certain, but he has to. "What happened in Sochi?"

If nothing else, at least it brings Ilya back. He tilts his head and sizes Shane up. "I lost to Latvia," he deadpans.

"No, I know, but—"

"Nyet, you don't know. Listen, Shane. I lost to Latvia."

It sends a line of goosebumps down his spine, and dread crawls there with it. "That's bullshit," he spits out. "Not one single player ever loses the entire game."

"Oh yeah?" Ilya snorts. He kicks at something on the sidewalk and seems to lean further into the wall. "You never blame yourself, Hollander?"

It pins Shane to the spot. He can't count the number of times he's blamed himself for losing a game, no matter how big or small. If he scored just one more goal. If his skate didn't skid. If he managed to break out during the opponent's power play. If he managed just one snipe, laid his body down to defend their goal, intercepted that pass, skated faster, passed, shot, if he just played better.

He bristles at the thought. "Well, you shouldn't blame yourself," he says stubbornly. "You were playing with an injured goalie. Have you ever even played with those guys before?"

Ilya gives a defeated shrug. "Does not matter to Russia. I lost."

"Jesus. I just don't think—"

"It doesn't matter, Shane. My father is… old-fashioned. He wants… Ugh, English is stupid. Forget about it."

Except when the x in this equation finally reveals itself to be Ilya's father—it always circles back to him, almost every time—something clicks. And Shane might not understand everything, but he feels like he has now stolen a glance at something he wasn't supposed to see. Or maybe he was supposed to see it but not understand it. Regardless—

"He wants you to be perfect," Shane finishes for Ilya. It makes sense. The only reason behind his own what ifs and regrets is his need to perform at the highest possible level. To be what he realistically knows he can't be, which is perfect. "But that's impossible. Nobody is perfect, Ilya."

"Maybe you should go tell my police father. Russian ministers, too?"

Shane scoffs. "You know I'm fucking right."

"Yes, maybe. But it doesn't matter."

Ilya suddenly takes out his cigarettes again and lights one up. It steadies his fingers, but Shane's left looking around like they'd be sent to jail if somebody caught them.

Anxiety flickers but Shane squashes it by leaning against the wall next to Ilya. Their shoulders are not quite touching, but it's enough to be able to sink into his presence. The cigarette smoke keeps wafting the other way, so Shane takes a deep breath.

The fire has left him. His voice is soft and inquisitive again when he speaks. "Is that why you sent me away? Didn't text me for half a year?"

Ilya groans again, like something's punched the air out of him and it escapes in a rough huff through his mouth. "I tell you it's complicated, is it not enough?"

Irritation spikes. Shane notices the shift in Ilya's English. "Maybe I'm asking the wrong question?" he tries.

"Wrong question." Ilya repeats it with mockery and takes a long drag out of his cigarette. The gathered ash falls off the tip and skids down his hoodie, leaving little grey crumbs along the way. "You just have too many of them."

"You told me we were nothing. But then here we are, so we have to be something, but I just don't understand…"

"Shane, pozhaluysta. Please, stop. I don't know what more to say."

The truth, Shane wants to say. I see how scared you are. Even now, who knows how many miles away from Sochi, you're scared to look at me and admit I mean something. Or is it that you mean something?

"Me either. But…" Shane trails off. It feels like he's asking for the impossible, even if he resents the notion. Words upon words feel lodged at the back of his throat and he's the one demanding answers, not the one trying to answer. It would be better if they were fighting, maybe—maybe he'd care less, then, about what spills out of his mouth. In this lamp-lit street of Paris, everything feels too gentle, too bare. Even without saying it—what is this, what do you want from me—he feels like an open wound.

"But what, Shane?" Ilya takes another drag. Holds it in for a few seconds, and then a cloud of smoke cloaks his face before it dissipates.

Just fucking say it. Shane's palms are fists. He locks his eyes on Ilya's face again. "We're not nothing," he bites out.

It's the best he can do. It may be a request for an apology in disguise, but mostly it's something he's just needed to get out. The merciless loop of it in his head has been too much for months, and the least he can do is not bear it alone. Or maybe he's looking for confirmation.

For a moment, he's pretty sure he's not getting either. Ilya looks too busy with his cigarette, thumb picking at the edge of the filter like it's a hangnail, cheeks hollowing out around every drag.

It's almost to the butt when he speaks. "This is just us, yes? Ignore Hollander, ignore Rozanov."

"Yes," Shane agrees quickly. It is the truth. "It's just you and me. Shane and Ilya."

At the sound of his name, Ilya smiles almost involuntarily. His eyes flicker down to the dying tip of his cigarette before they land back up. "Of course we are not nothing," he says.

Shane blinks; breathes out. A laugh threatens to bubble out, like the exhale finally makes enough space for it. "Alright then," he mumbles mostly to himself.

Ilya must hear it too, though, considering how much his face relaxes all of a sudden. It's funny, Shane thinks, how shadowy people's faces get when they're upset or trying to hide, and how much lighter they look when it passes. Ilya's is a silent film that suddenly turns into technicolor right before his eyes.

"Is all you wanted to hear?" Ilya teases.

"Maybe."

Now that the seriousness of their conversation mellows, it's easier again to say half-truths. Shane knows it's not the end of the conversation—not really—but it's enough for him, it's… It's more than he thought he'd ever get, actually.

"Let's keep going, then." Ilya grants himself one more smore drag that burns the cigarette all the way to the filter. Carelessly, he flicks it to the ground and squashes it with the heel of his foot; makes back for the crosswalk after.

"Oh my God, Ilya." Shane bends and picks up the pancaked cigarette butt, holding it between his thumb and pointer finger. The very edge of it is still a little damp from Ilya's mouth, and Shane notices the browned-out center. It shouldn't be hot at all to look at a filter and shiver at the idea of a mouth sucking, and pulling; of lungs inhaling deep.

Shane tosses it in the can near the scrolling sign.

"Weirdo," Ilya says just before they cross the street, and it's the fondest thing anyone's ever said.

They keep walking. The large Avenue eventually thins down. The sidewalk curves gently every now and then, and their elbows brush when they step to the side to let other people pass, and sometimes even when they don't. The night is warm, or maybe it's just Ilya, and Paris settles into night. People hoot and it sounds louder; somebody plays a guitar at one of the corners and Shane would believe he's at the Bell Centre.

He silently takes in signs and the names of the streets—Avenue Duquesne until they turn left to follow moonlit greenery through Rue de Estrées, then Rue de Babylone for what seems like forever. The words change even though they walk in the same straight line. Regardless, Shane feels the same stone under his feet; he finds himself feeling hugged by the narrow line of it. Like the city is keeping them safe.

The street opens up in the end, of course, as it always does. But they continue quietly, crossing the street and taking an easy right, letting the large Boulevard carry them. As if they were charging up on more words. All of a sudden—just as they're coming up on a lit-up McDonald's—Shane realizes that they've already said more to each other in the past five or so hours than throughout their entire NHL career. Since Saskatchewan, maybe.

Escaping the busy, spacious square, they take one more left just before the fast food chain and find themselves on another cobblestoned street that seems calmer. Shane saw a sign for Notre Dame not long ago and he knows they're vaguely going in that direction, but he's happy for this less-walked path.

Boredom nicks the back of Shane's neck here. He doesn't know how to break the silence, especially here in such a small quiet space, but he thinks maybe they could go for another drink. Some places are bound to still be open closer to the cathedral, and maybe this time, it could be a date. A real date that neither of them will question.

Laughter rings out and a group of people appears from around the upcoming corner. They're all dressed similarly: casual but with a hint of attending an event, a silver necklace here, a fancy updo there, cologne wafting through the air.

Inadvertently, Shane smiles.

As if Ilya's been watching him the entire time, he veers towards the corner. "Want to see where they came from?" he asks.

"Sure."

But following and turning the corner leads them to… an alley. Shane can't figure out a different word to use. It feels like a game-ready goalie wouldn't even fit through.

At the end of it, though, there are more people standing and chatting, and Shane wonders. Was it a play they all went to see? Or a concert, or some sort of underground show you'd need a password for? As they come nearer, though, he sees it's a narrow-doored bookstore. The Abbey Bookshop, it says—and above it, a Canadian flag waving in the late-evening breeze. There's a sandwich board in front of the door advertising a talk with a French author Shane hasn't heard of, and a free glass of sangria.

"I want a glass," Ilya informs Shane, having read the same sign. He must not have noticed the Canadian flag.

"What? You, a glass of sangria?"

Ilya shrugs. "Why not? Is refreshing. Refreshing is good."

Shane's eyebrow is high as the sky. He has to bite his lip to stop himself from saying, did you know Hayden's wife loves sangria, you guys should get together for brunch.

"Come."

Ilya's hand is in Shane's as suddenly as lightning. It's exactly the same move that Shane pulled when he tugged Ilya towards the Trocadéro viewpoint. If he thought then that his heart would explode at the touch, it now threatens to catapult itself out of Earth's orbit.

"Wait," he tries to say, but Ilya is already pulling him along. "It could be invite-only."

"Who cares?" Ilya says over his shoulder. "Look French."

"I can't just—"

His words get cut off when Ilya drags them through the small crowd. The only thing Shane can do is shut up and not speak English, though he's not sure that meets the requirements of look French. How the fuck does a person look French?

When Ilya doesn't stop in front of the entrance, Shane wants to scream or at least hiss, but it's not like he actually tries to physically stop it from happening. His feet skip over the threshold and they're inside, where there's nobody there except hundreds of books squeezed onto shelves, and a staircase beckoning them to go down.

"Ilya," Shane hisses now and wiggles his fingers out of Ilya's clutch. "We definitely shouldn't be here!"

Ilya is already two steps down. "Really?" he asks. His eyes search Shane's face for mere seconds before he smirks. "Your smile tells me different, Shane."

"I'm not—" But he is. Shane is smiling wide and open, like a dog at the gate before an adventure begins, and the thrill of it is like a bird flicking the on switch inside his chest. His hand catches the railing. "You're gonna get us in trouble."

"Then let's go before somebody sees you," Ilya retorts cockily and turns back around.

Shane watches his retreating back for a moment before he feels something snap inside him. Fuck it, he thinks and goes down the stone steps as quickly as he can without falling.

Downstairs, it's even quieter. There are no voices, no other feet over the creaky floor other than theirs, no soft piano playing a background tune. Shane is a top-level athlete, yet he can hear his own breath as it rushes in and out.

Ilya looks good among all the books. It's all non-fiction from what Shane can see, but Ilya's got his hands in his pockets and he's tilting his head to read the titles. Shane would be overwhelmed by the sheer amount of titles, but he's more than content to stare at the back of Ilya's curly head and the full scope of his shoulders. All the lights here are warm, bathing him in gold, making him seem so far away but tempting at the same time.

Every time they take a step to move around the restricted space, the wood creaks again. Hello, it seems to say. Hi.

And Shane just trails, riding the welcome on Ilya's heels.

On the left, there is a small arch lined with red fairy lights. Beyond it, the books sit on shelves but also in stacks on the floor. So much knowledge in this world and this isn't even one percent of it, but it's not like Shane cares—not like Shane wants to learn anything but the curve of Ilya's body as it exists in this old creaky place full of words, in his hoodie, in Paris, right now.

"Ilya," he says, tasting the name in his mouth again. How many times has he said it? There would never be a satisfying number to it; it could be five, seventy-three, or a million. Shane would still want to say it one more time, then one more.

It sounds different here. It's too quiet—every letter feels so loud and inevitable.

Ilya, his fingers just tracing the spine of an older-looking clothbound book, turns his profile towards him. "Hm? Yes?"

Shane blinks. Think of something. "I'm saying your name wrong."

"Mm, no. You say it the English way." Thinking the debate closed, he returns to the book.

"Well, how do you say it the Russian way? Teach me."

"I like how you say it," Ilya snipes back.

Shane groans. "Then just tell me. I'll keep saying it the English way, I promise."

Something about it grants Shane all of Ilya's attention. He lets the clothbound edition fall back into its place on the shelf and he turns around, leaning against the structure. It tucks him away in the corner just behind the arch, and it casts him in shadows. The fairy lights twinkle in his eyes, or maybe it's just mischief.

"Come here," he says in his accent. "I will show you."

Shane only hesitates for a second before he obeys. He tries to step lightly, make the floors groan as little as possible, but there's audible evidence to his every move. Stopping is hard; he wants to keep going and close the gap between them. The bookshop is so obviously far removed from the closed-off hotel rooms, but the air Shane drags in through his nose smells familiar. Intimate, secluded, warm. It makes him want to do what he's done when the air smells like this. Reach out, press his thumb against Ilya's pulse point, open his mouth and give in to the hungry sensation of kissing.

The kiss by the Seine seems far away, too. Shane misses the way they kissed in Montréal, slow but starving. He misses feeling like he's the only thing in the universe, he misses Ilya's body, he misses his hands, his wet lips, his cock. He misses finding bruises on the back of his thighs the morning after, and he misses the careful layer of warmth around his stomach and chest.

Shane is hungry. He so wants to eat. He hasn't eaten in nearly half a year.

"Watch my mouth," Ilya instructs as if Shane's eyes weren't pinned on it already.

"Mhm," Shane hums.

Ilya's mouth opens. When he speaks, his voice is low, and he drags his own name out like bubblegum. Eeelllyaah, he says, but the l is so soft. Shane sees it happen—the curl of his tongue, the way the tip of it flicks against his front teeth for the briefest second. Despite its softness, the sound cuts through Shane's stomach, runs the length of his hips, and rushes into his crotch. Eeelllyaah, he says again, and Shane watches, transfixed. Ilya's lips are barely moving, his Cupid's bow only rising at the second syllable.

Shane couldn't replicate it if he tried.

Still, his own mouth must have fallen open and mirrored the movements, because Ilya moves. His eyes are on Shane's lips and he's smiling, and he says it one more time, that delicious L almost its own person except indescribable, and Shane tries. He doesn't do it out loud, but he makes his tongue roll the same, and he makes it touch his teeth, but it's not the same, it's just a low exhale of want.

At the back of his mind, he knows they might have minutes if they're lucky and seconds if they're not. Yet he's never been less incapable of moving, or turning away.

Ilya's mouth closes, but Shane still can't look away. He wants his own lips against it. Sink his teeth into soft flesh, open up, let Ilya's tongue run along his teeth for a change.

"Kiss me," he murmurs.

"Shane," Ilya says, and oh, yeah, Shane suddenly realizes that the sh sound here is so different from the one in Russia.

"Ilya," he urges. Takes care to do so the English way. "Please kiss me."

Ilya gulps. It's such a small thing that Shane almost misses it. He barely registers it before the strings of his hoodie get pulled and there it is—no gap. No distance.

Both of Ilya's palms cradle Shane's face as their lips finally meet. Shane's hands easily find their way to the familiar surface of Ilya's waist and he finds himself pressing them both against the shelves. His body is a live wire, hot and sensitive, and he only tries to push himself closer and closer when the kiss deepens.

Shane breathes out, but Ilya makes a low, thrumming mmm sound that makes everything feel so immediate. Shane's hands desperately try to scramble under the hoodie, seeking contact, and his next exhale turns into an embarrassing whimper when he feels his hair getting tied and pulled in fistfuls.

I want this so bad, I want this so bad, why do I still want this so bad— and then Ilya's tongue is in Shane's mouth, and his knee is lodged between his thighs even though he's the one backed against the shelves, and Shane's mind turns off.

All the nights he spent telling himself that he'd never cave again, that he'd never let Rozanov do this again, never let him leave again and therefore never let him in again—out the window. Or running up the steep stairs and out, off across Paris.

The thing is that this has always felt good, but now it feels right.

"Kiss me," Shane says again, but the words are smudged over Ilya's lips like inkstains; they've never stopped. "Please." Another smudge.

Mmm, comes the thrum that makes Shane's entire body vibrate.

Shane briefly thinks of the Canadian flag above the door. Knees buckling under pressure and pleasure, mouth hopelessly eager, fingers against skin, he feels like he's waving it for everybody to see. He's finally landed on the Moon.

THE ROUTE / INSIDE THE BOOKSHOP

Chapter End Notes

suspension of belief and trivia for this chapter 🥐

yay hello to my extra yapping!

this is the chapter with the most whimsy in terms of the number of things i took liberty with. the trek to the abbey bookshop is 45-ish minutes from la tourville, but it obviously takes them less here. officially, the bookshop is *not* open that long at all, but i created a fictional author talk to make it a bit more believable for our purposes.

the scrolling sign/trashcan aren't there (as per google maps), but the ads shane sees on it are 'real' - i'm hoping limp bizkit had the same poster for paris as for their german dates that year. the dates when the concert/the concert screenings happened are real, too.

i personally don't listen to limp bizkit but when i saw they had a show there, i looked up their songs and i just think it's such a neat coincidence (that i created) that they had that sochi talk by that ad, considering that the song 'boiler' goes: Why did I have to go and meet somebody like you? / Why do you have to go and hurt somebody like me?

the abbey bookshop pictures are stills from a small video i took there in november last year! i might post all 14 seconds on threads.

anyway, i love this chapter so much. i hope i managed to convince you to love it too. i'm literally so emotional about them here that if i talk about it too much, i'll cry. :)

if you're enjoying this, please do leave a comment/kudo if you have the time and/or energy, i appreciate it so much. ♥

i'm on threads or on tumblr! i'd love to see you there. ♥

PS: i know what happens in the next chapter, but i don't know where. i'll be taking a random journey with them. if you want to see them do something or see something, let me know in the comments! this is your moment!!! <3

Chapter 6: 11PM

Chapter Notes

thank you to illusionxdream (here on ao3) for telling me about the place that plays a pivotal role in this chapter and sharing many details with me, i really appreciate the time you took to talk to me and you do deserve a shoutout! ♥

hi! thank you so much for being here! ♥

i would like to do two things, and that is:
1. rate this specific chapter m :)
2. apologize for the way it ends, remember ily!

The temperature outside has dropped considerably, but Ilya can't get himself to cool down. He's tied his hoodie around his waist, the uneaten kouign-amanns bouncing against the backs of his legs from their cozy spot in the pouch pocket, but he feels almost feverish.

Even here, back out on the street that led them to the alley, Ilya can't shake it.

Yes, part of it is that whenever he blinks, the low bookstore lights still flash across his mind, making it impossible to focus or have a thought that goes uninterrupted. The bigger part, though, the worse part—Ilya can't stop thinking about and feeling Shane's hands.

They're not touching now; their shoulders are not even brushing. Shane's hands are still on his waist; Shane's lips are still wet and eager against his mouth. Shane is all over him, and Ilya wants more.

This is not the first time he's wanted more. He's a master of wanting more, even when it comes to Shane. The root of it is back in Saskatchewan, and he's never had a problem asking for it or demanding it. Inquiring after hotel room numbers, taking what he wanted, from rough carpets to soft beds; the long game of two years for more, he's so unjust, really, for thinking other people try to scrape him out and leave him running on empty when he's constantly doing the same.

But. It feels different now. And Ilya's finding it very difficult to understand whether it's just that they're in Paris—and it seems so distant from their reality—or whether it's something else. Regardless, he can't believe he's not holding Shane's hand. He can't believe he wants to be. He can't believe the kiss only lasted a short minute, can't believe they're back outside where, even removed from their world, they can't afford the risk.

That just walking side by side is risk enough.

What would pressing Shane against the nearest wall and sucking on the sensitive skin of his neck be? A deathwish? Ilya wants it. Dying with his lips against Hollander's throat doesn't seem like the worst way to go.

It seems as though they're walking nowhere. With his skin hot and mind buzzy, Ilya can't see the point in going anywhere, especially if he wants nothing more than to still be at the Bookshop, like an insect stuck on a fly trap.

The end of the street opens up into a moody movie scene. It looks as though every business owner knows their primary goal is to enthrall: more fairy lights, more piano music, more flowers. It's almost like they've stepped into a hidden pocket within their hidden pocket. And Ilya still wants. To sit down at one of these restaurants, and pay for an expensive meal, and a glass of wine they'll drink right this time, and to look at Shane, and— Get your shit together. You sound like a fucking teenager that's never gotten his dick wet.

"I have an idea," Shane announces at the same time.

Ilya blinks in surprise. "Stealing my line?"

"It is not your line," Shane argues immediately.

"Mmm, is."

He snickers. "No, it's not. But I can keep it to myself if you're gonna be butthurt about it."

"Shaneee," Ilya intones. "Please tell me your brilliant idea."

Their pace has slowed to a crawl, both of them unwilling to continue their aimless stroll but equally unwilling to come to a full halt. Ilya would probably explode if he had to stop, anyway; if he can't do all that he wants to, he has to at least try and walk it off.

Shane clicks his tongue. "You'd probably hate it, actually. Nevermind. Where do you want to go?"

"No, no. Not fair. Follow the rules."

"What rules?" Shane looks to the side, his gaze quickly meeting Ilya's before flickering back to the lit-up street around them. "You said no rules, remember?"

Ilya grunts. "Okay, new rule. If we have ideas, we have to share. I thought this was clear."

"No, it definitely wasn't."

"It's clear now, yes?"

Shane huffs out a breath in what Ilya can only call frustration. It's funny, the way Shane has to be told sometimes. Ilya always thought it only applied in the bedroom—get on your knees, get on your stomach, tell me, do this, let me show you how—but he sees now that it translates into all the other rooms as well. It spills into the world around him, really, and maybe that's why he's such a good hockey player, and so good at listening even when Ilya doesn't want to talk.

"Well yeah, I guess," Shane admits in the end, but he's frowning. It doesn't matter; all the buzz around them gives even this expression an air of ease. "But I'm not sure… I don't think this idea would apply, Ilya."

"You apply cream, Shane," Ilya chirps. "Just tell me."

"Fine," Shane spits out. "It just goes against your other rule. You said no plan, and this would kind of be a plan."

Finally, something to cool Ilya down. "Oh?" he says, his voice curling itself into a higher pitch at the end at the same time as goosebumps break out over his forearms.

He can imagine what's going to follow: let's return to our hotel. It might be neatly wrapped like a gift, squeezed in the middle of some romantic proclamation, like I didn't get enough of you at the bookstore, I want you, or it might be a simple statement, like let's go back and fuck.

And Ilya gets it. He takes one look at Shane's profile, at the way his hair looks even softer in this light, at the freckles that stand out like ancient topography across his cheeks, at the smooth line of his neck that trails down and disappears behind the collar of his hoodie to meet his shoulder in secret—away from Ilya's prying eyes. He knows he'll say yes.

This adventure will be over, but at least he'll have somewhat repaired the six-month-long silence. They can go back to meeting up in secret, and that's better than not having Shane at all. Bite-sized pleasure for another season might be worth more than a never-ending expanse of wonder that lasts one night.

"There's a place that might be nice," Shane finally says.

Ilya stops, finally. "What?"

Shane halts as well, one step ahead; has to turn around. "J.J. — Boiziau — told me about this one bar. I don't know exactly where it is so we'd have to ask for directions and it's obviously, like, a destination, so I'm not sure if that's something you wanna do. I just thought, maybe…"

"Bar."

"Yeah? It's called O'Neil. But it's whatever, we don't have to go or anything. I'm just saying stuff." Even in the subpar light, Shane's cheeks are visibly flushed.

So are Ilya's, probably, although for different reasons. "You don't want to go back to hotel?" he asks dumbly.

Shane's frown deepens. "No? Why, do you?"

"No, no," Ilya rushes to say. "Shane Hollander wants to go to a bar. I was just confused."

Shane grins. "Looks cute on you," he says.

All of a sudden, Ilya realizes that part of the heat he struggled so much to shake was radiating off of Shane. It's stupid, probably, but it only occurs to him now—that something has shifted between them. Like whatever was cool-toned has warmed bit by bit, or maybe the spectrum has just widened.

Still, Ilya carefully assembles his face into an expression of disgust. "You can't call me cute," he says, "is illegal."

"Maybe not so illegal in Paris."

"Illegal everywhere," Ilya argues, shaking his head. "Anyway, if we go to this bar, is it still not a date?"

"If we go to this bar…" Shane starts, then trails off, teasing. "If we go to this bar, then it's a date."

"Okay, Hollander," Ilya smirks. He can only hope that his face is not giving away the butterflies in his belly, not that he believes in those; not that they can be real for somebody like him. "You convinced me. Let's go."

Shane's face lights up. Congratulating himself on a plan well-executed, surely, but Ilya can't believe his own excitement—so how could he believe that Hollander feels the same?

The light only dims a little bit. "Shit, I'm gonna have to ask someone."

"Mm, I get to hear your French again."

Shane shoves Ilya in the shoulder playfully before looking around. He's almost like a little kid who lost his parents in a supermarket and is now stuck somewhere between the dairy and the fresh produce sections. The crowd around them is rich, but it's nearly impossible to pick out locals. It's a Friday night—everybody is loud, the mix of languages creating one indistinguishable garble.

"Who the fuck do I even ask?" Shane says incredulously. He seems frustrated with himself, Ilya thinks as he watches his eyes jump from one person to the next. He wonders whether he's trying to look for impossible tells that would out somebody as Parisian, or maybe he's waiting to catch French from some passerby's mouth, but it's clearly not working.

Ilya steps closer to him. "Maybe ask one of them?" he suggests, discreetly nodding towards one of the greeters at the restaurant on their left.

"That's so douchy, Ilya! I'm not gonna ask them where the other place I want to go is!"

"Why? They don't own this, they just work here. They will not kill you, probably!" Ilya exclaims, talking with his hands. "Who else do you want to ask?"

"Probably," Shane mutters under his breath, and he looks around one more time. Whatever he was looking for is nowhere to be found; he ends up shaking his head and saying: "Ugh, this is the worst, I hate you."

"Was your idea!" Ilya hisses.

Shane's already made the snap decision to go ask, though, and Ilya trails behind him. Come to think of it, they're both like children. Out alone after dark for the first time, crawling through the windows of their monitored lives, clicking stolen lighters over bent cigarettes, kissing behind broad-shouldered buildings, asking strangers for help—if only they were holding hands, too.

Shane's French is rapid. Ilya can't catch anything aside from his opening s'il vous plaît and the shock of his accent around O'Neil, but he can't tear his eyes away from his face. It's so different than seeing it on TV when he speaks to reporters. Maybe nobody can tell—except Ilya can, now, and it is worlds apart. He's transfixed with the way Shane's lips curl and shape unfamiliar words, syllable after syllable falling out with haste. Desire creeps back in and Ilya's glad he hasn't put his hoodie back on. He'd be forced to shed it again at the slight change in pitch when Shane speaks a different language, and at the way his mouth must have been made for this.

Rolled r's and dull u's skid and jump out and Ilya is brought back to the bookshop. Time felt so slow there, and he's never going to be able to erase the image of Shane's tongue hesitantly touching his teeth.

Shane is saying O'Neil again, Shane is laughing, Shane looks like he's talking to a friend.

Ilya is listening, but he is also wishing Shane could have said his name out loud the Russian way, and he is thinking, it might kill me if I ever told him about Russian diminutives and he called me Ilyusha. it might kill me.

Maybe it's not the French—maybe it's just Hollander, forced out of his quiet bubble, and speaking, instead, multiple languages so perfectly.

Despite being covered in a thin layer of sweat, Ilya shivers. Squirms.

The conversation finally wraps up and Shane turns around. He practically rams into Ilya, red in the cheeks but still smiling. "Oh, hey."

"Hi," Ilya smirks.

"So funny thing," Shane starts explaining, "we have to go back. Like, not to the hotel or anything, just…" He vaguely waves his hand in the direction they came from. "Just literally retrace our steps for, like, ten minutes, then take one left."

Is that why he looks so flushed? Ilya keeps smirking. "Retrace our steps," he repeats after him.

"Yeah, so that means we have to walk back—"

"Shane, I know what it means. You have to stop explaining English to me," Ilya says, laughter barely contained within the words. "I'm making fun of you."

"Dick," Shane mumbles. It's so half-hearted that it doesn't even count. "Let's go."

"Lead the way, Mr. Map," Ilya says, moving his body as if he were a butler ushering very important guests through the door.

Even though they're walking the same streets, it feels new. The only thing that serves as a reminder is that general feeling of retracing. In a way, it feels like they're already putting down the thin blue line together.

Over small talk, Ilya wonders whether they will ever look at the map together again, or whether whenever they mark the last location will be it. Will Shane keep it? Will he unearth it years from now, from the bottom of an old suitcase, and show his family? Look, kids, this is a map I got in Paris a very long time ago. Ilya's name probably won't get mentioned, and Shane's wife will be so much happier for it.

Good for him, Ilya thinks, and his feet feel like lead, and he doesn't have it in him to blame the miles he's walked or the number of hours he's gone without sleep.

"We turn somewhere, yes?" Ilya asks after a few minutes.

"Yeah. Twice, technically, but the first one is still just walking backwards."

"Where?"

"Uh, did you notice the Mabillon metro stop on the way here?"

No, Ilya didn't. He was probably looking everywhere at once or at Shane. "Yes," he says. "We turn there?"

"It's less a turn and more sticking to the left, but yeah."

Ilya hums. "Ok. I'll race you there."

Even through a side glance, Ilya sees recognition twinkle across Shane's face. The last time they raced each other was up the stairs in Montréal, and they both know it.

"Like winning a two-hundred-meter race is that impressive?" Shane teases, but it's already breathless.

"Winning is winning," Ilya shrugs. Without a word of warning, he sets off down the street, one hand holding the knot of his hoodie against his stomach so it doesn't come loose. He can feel his calves and thighs straining. Cool night air lashes at his face and whips through his hair; Ilya knows he doesn't need to be sprinting, but he can't help himself.

Despite the burn that settles in his muscles almost immediately and the hum of his own blood in his ears, Ilya still feels like lead. His whole body does. He's running away, again, instead of towards; away from the idea of Shane's perfect life that Ilya will not be a part of.

More than that, maybe, he's running away from the idea that Ilya wants to be. That if he were to close his eyes and imagine his perfect future, he would see Shane's. Like it's possible for them to share it, or to exist together in this way, and he doesn't even know why he wants it, or why that want feels like a need.

He's almost at the Metro sign. Given how the road runs like two arms of the same river, one straight and the other one to the left, it must be Mabillon.

Ten, fifteen meters away from the finish line, Hollander passes him by and tears the invisible ribbon with his chest.

Ilya's feet hit the sidewalk mere seconds later, but it doesn't matter. He's lost.

"Congrats," he breathes out, voice low and sour. He leans his sweaty palms against his knees and inhales again, long and tired through his nose.

"You were totally right, Rozanov," Shane declares, triumphant. "A win is a win. I feel awesome."

Ilya's last name resonates like when you drop a spoon on the hard kitchen floor in the middle of the night. It feels like the whole street hears it, and it's humiliating.

"Two hundred meters is joke," Ilya grits out, squeezing the words one by one. "Don't shit yourself, Hollander."

Instead of provoking annoyance or a jab, Shane has the audacity to laugh. It's jarring; it doesn't make sense with what Ilya knows. When he pokes like this, Shane's supposed to feel it like his skin is being pricked by a needle. He's not supposed to find it funny. Some part of it, at least a one-syllable-big part of it, is supposed to hurt. Just a little bit, just so Ilya can grin about it and make it feel better in the aftermath. Ilya's no longer in control of anything.

"Big baby," Shane teases again. So bold all of a sudden, like he doesn't know that his stupid eyes and mouth and nose and voice and arms and—that it's all going to kill Ilya eventually. Fuck. What is he doing? What is he thinking?

"Very funny," he grumbles in response.

And it's a response to himself, as much as it is a response to Shane. There's not one explanation for his thoughts he's interested in, so he better fucking shake them off.

"I thought I was boring," Shane continues. He's clearly having a ball. Just another nail in the coffin, really.

"Yeah, you are man of many talents," Ilya replies, still grouchy. "Let's just go."

Get your English together, get your head together, get a grip. All equally important on Ilya's to-do list as they trail down Rue du Four, both catching their breath. It gives space to silence again, and this time, Ilya is thankful. It's difficult enough to get his lungs under control. Something might have cracked; this might be over.

Not to Shane, though.

No matter what Ilya does, he can't pull his focus away from him. So he doesn't miss it—the fact that Shane still walks with ease, or that his shoulders are still relaxed. That smile is still there, too, or maybe just a ghost of it. His lips are slightly parted as he regulates his own breathing. Whatever has cracked—if anything has cracked—is in Ilya.

As per fucking usual.

He refrains from asking which turn they're taking. It ends up being the fourth street on the left, and it is perhaps livelier than the big Boulevard they've left behind. Akin to the alley, it's narrow and bracketed by tall buildings. So many people here, though: walking, standing around and laughing, crouching with a cigarette by their mouth.

Music resonates and fills the space. It seems to crawl up the facades and then catapult back down, enveloping Ilya from each side. Somebody—incredibly—has a boombox. A song he doesn't recognize fights over the beat coming from inside.

How are you not dying here, Ilya thinks to himself, looking at Shane's profile. It's so crowded, so loud.

There is apprehension on Shane's face when they stop a few feet away from O'Neil's. "I thought it would be… smaller," he mumbles.

Ilya's eyebrow shoots up. "You thought Boiziau told you about a small bar? Boiziau, guy who has friends in probably every night club in every city."

"How do you know so much about him, anyway?" Shane asks, but it's the right tone now—like something's itchy.

"He's the most interesting player in Montréal," Ilya answers.

It's not true, of course. J.J. Boiziau is just easy to catch for the paparazzi, which means Ilya has to scroll past his face on a very regular basis when he's on Twitter.

"Sure." Shane dismisses the remark with a snicker, and he rolls his shoulders. "We're going. It's a date and I'm not backing out."

Right. It's a date. Ilya inhales sharply through his nose. Over the constant noise in his head, he's completely forgotten that this is something more than stumbling upon a random place they might or might not want to visit. The knowledge that Shane hasn't forgotten puts a pause to every ugly thought. Ilya's not sure how that's possible; all he knows is that his mind goes quiet—the opposite of triggered.

"After you, Shane," he says quietly, motioning towards the door.

Once inside, O'Neil feels like a raft that's bobbing in the middle of a vast ocean. Even just by the bar, it's easy to forget that a horizon exists here—to each side, dim red light covers every surface and makes it all feel infinite.

It creeps and crawls, too. There are stools, each occupied, and all chatter is drowned out by loud music. The space is big and open, but it manages the rare thing that is the feeling of intimacy. They order, of course, two beers, locally made, and then walk through and around the tables and chairs. Couples are leaning towards each other, hands hiding under tables. You wouldn't be able to guess what they're doing.

The air, no matter which direction they go through, smells sweet. It feels like they have to force their way through it—at least to Ilya.

On the left, there's a row of tables and a bench inviting them to sit, but they continue on. The back room beckons them more; equally loud, equally dark, but somewhat more private. When Ilya looks up, railing gives away the hidden second floor. He can't see anybody from down here, though.

Shane is in front of him. Ilya has to lean in, his lips almost brushing the soft hair at the back of his neck. "Let's go upstairs," he suggests.

Turning around, the edge of Shane's cheek catches Ilya's lip before they manage to move apart. Ilya sees that his eyes are jittery; his shoulders pulled up. "Yeah," he simply agrees.

Nobody is looking at them, but Ilya still tries to be invisible as they walk past the tables towards the staircase. The glass with beer is sliding through his fingers just a tiny bit.

Up the stairs, there is a fairly open space. Most of the tables are taken, but there is one in the corner that's empty. It sits alone in near-darkness, red glinting off the surface, and they both beeline for it. It feels natural when they sit down next to each other instead of across.

"Shane," Ilya says when they put their glasses down and settle.

Shane, staring at the railing, blinks and looks to Ilya. "Yeah?"

"You good?"

"Sorry, yeah." He shuffles in the chair, fingers nervously curling around his beer and twirling the glass to the left. "I'm good."

Ilya squints. "We don't have to stay," he says, and he means it. Sure, a date is nice. But it's still just something sticky they're going to leave behind, and he'd rather that Shane is comfortable.

"No," Shane says. He sounds so resolute, and it's only highlighted by the frown that ties his brows together. "I want to stay. I want this. Just give me five fucking seconds to get used to the noise, Jesus. You don't have to be so eager to leave."

"I'm not…" Ilya trails off. Okay, pointless. "We're staying. We're good."

He wishes he could reach out and touch Shane's hand. Wishes he could say you're good, instead of leaning on the ever-present we, just don't make it personal, speak like it means less than it does.

But then, why couldn't he?

He remembers the couples downstairs, and how nobody noticed them or simply didn't care. The lights are so dim they're barely a red tint on Shane's face. All in all, it would be hard to properly see anything, even if somebody stopped directly by their table.

Ilya snakes his hand down and rests it on his own thigh. Then thinks, fuck it, and gently rests it on Shane's.

His eyes go to Ilya's face immediately, wide and quizzical. But it's not the same look Ilya's seen before—not here—instead it's something different. They seem to be asking, is this really okay? do you really want this? here?

Ilya squeezes very lightly. Very carefully. "We're good," he says again.

Shane nods. The muscle in his thigh is flexed under Ilya's palm, taut like a rubber band. He must be holding his shoe balanced on the toe like a ballet dancer practicing his en pointe.

It's warm and feels undeniably correct, and Ilya's fingers squeeze again as they feel a slight tremble. It's possibly the hottest thing he's ever experienced. Shane is. Especially once he gives in: the sole drops flat on the floor, the leg relaxes against Ilya, almost as if melting.

Still, Ilya is wary; abstains from moving although he wants to. It's a physical quiver in the tips of his fingers that tries to pull them upwards or towards Shane's inner thigh. He has to fight against the thread that seems to tug so hard, and now it's his hand that's trembling. The idea that Shane can feel it through the fabric of his pants is entrancing.

"What are you doing?" Shane breathes out. Ilya reads it off his lips more than he can hear it over the music.

He shrugs. "Don't know," he says. Mostly because it's hard to put it into words.

It's a familiar sensation, to be touching Shane like this. Even though Shane himself feels different here, and has for the past however many hours, finding himself aiming for his body is second nature to Ilya at this point. Something calming and comforting about it, too, and that's the reason both to seek it out and reject it.

Here, Ilya wants to indulge it more than… Well, to say he hasn't wanted to indulge would be wrong. Suppose it's more right to say he's felt like not indulging was fairer. To whom, it is hard to say.

O'Neil is a place that makes it impossible to say no. At least for Ilya.

Eventually, when he sees that Shane is not jerking away, he does let his fingers move. They slowly crawl up, making their way an inch or so further. Ilya's middle finger reaches the dangerous warmth of Shane's inner thigh while his pinky rests close to the crease protecting his crotch.

He raises his eyebrows in a silent question. This okay? That's what he's trying to say.

Both of Shane's hands are palms-down on the table, the untouched glass of beer between them like some sort of phallic pillar. And he's leaning forward, inching ever closer to Ilya, neck bending, eyes looking up through long dark eyelashes so as not to break the contact between them. Red coats Shane's face like a veil, and behind it, shadows dance to a different rhythm than the music commands. It's a rhythm that corresponds with the sly movement of Ilya's hand. Up, down, inner thigh, inner thigh, inner thigh.

Shane's eyelashes flutter, his eyes threatening to close.

"Ilya," he says. It's difficult to tell whether it's a warning or a plea.

"You look so good in this light," Ilya says. He doesn't know what it is, but being near Hollander has always been so good at taking his filter away.

"Stop," Shane says, freezing Ilya's hand in its spot where it's idly palming at the place where the fabric is rubbed thinner from constant friction, "complimenting me. Stop complimenting me."

"But you do," Ilya says stubbornly. He doesn't move his hand again, but he presses it in. "Look so good, Shane."

"This is not…" But Shane trails off, gulping instead. His exhale is not audible, but Ilya sees it for what it is anyway. It's a sigh at best.

"Do you like it?" Ilya asks, his interest genuine. "When I touch you like this?"

"Yes," Shane admits. His voice is a little desperate and a little hopeless and very low.

I wish I could touch you more, Ilya thinks. I haven't touched you like this in so long. Six months. I miss it.

The truth of it is that the half-year-long silence has worn Ilya thin. Shane might not think so, his team might not see it, but Ilya feels it every day. Felt. Right now feels… better. Despite the constant buzzing in his mind, despite that parasite of doubt that sometimes rears its ugly fucking head. Here, now, with his hand on Shane's body, innocent or not, it feels better.

"Good," Ilya says and pulls his hand away.

"God, you're such a fucking asshole," Shane groans, and his body slumps. Frustrated, he wipes his face with his right hand. "I can't fucking believe you."

Innocently, Ilya puts both his hands up. "I did nothing," he insists.

"You know exactly what you did. I'm gonna have to go to the bathroom now."

"Well." Ilya bites his bottom lip hard. "Is not my fault you think I'm soo hot. Unless you want me to go with you?"

Shane mulls it over. There's a very brief moment of hesitation in his face, hanging at the edge of his mouth that he lets sit agape, jaw slack. It crashes against Ilya like a tidal wave even though it's gone in a flash; he remembers his remark on that street about exhibitionism and it's no longer so funny, now that he lives a full second in a world where it's possible. Where Shane Hollander pauses to consider dragging him into a bathroom stall and letting himself be taken in a hand, or in a mouth. It's just a second, but it means everything.

"No," he says in the end. He carefully rearranges his face into something casual, but his smile gives away thrill and excitement. "Not here," he adds finally.

Ilya nods. Not here. The only reason he stopped himself is that Shane deserves something else after all this time.

True to his word, Shane gets up. The scrape of the chair gets lost in the noise, and Ilya is left watching his retreating silhouette. He's still wearing his hoodie with the pin, but Ilya can just about imagine the broadness of his shoulders underneath. If he closes his eyes, he can even imagine them naked; can see the precise line of his spine that trails down the middle between them and flows into the valley of his lower back. Behind closed lids, Ilya sees stretch-marked hips, deep dimples to dig thumbs into, the smooth skin that descends and curves into—

Ilya sighs and squirms in his chair. He chugs half of his beer in one go, wiping his mouth of any foam residue, clears his throat. Goes through these normal motions to convince himself that everything is fine.

The truth is, though, that if he doesn't calm his mind and body, he's gonna have to go to the bathroom, too. His pants feel tight around his crotch; not as tight as they could be, had he continued, but tight enough to cause discomfort.

He squirms again. It's a strange place to be caught—this place between arousal and fear. He feels like somebody's put him together all wrong in the last hour or so, one part of him bending under the weight of need while the other struggles to understand how this night could lead to anything but hopeless disappointment. He's wedged between these like a rock in the sole of a shoe.

Maudlin, always so maudlin in the worst moments. Ilya puts himself on repeat. He sips a bit, wipes his mouth, clears his throat. Once, twice more, like a well-trained animal.

Slowly but surely, his body starts to listen. It's the brain fog, probably, that's fighting yet again to come to the forefront, and Ilya allows it. As long as he can keep it at bay, it's fine. As long as those feelings he raced through outside remain passive, he's okay.

Several minutes later, Shane finally reappears, skipping up the stairs.

"Hey," he says. The hair around his face glints when the red lighting falls against it, betraying that it's wet. He must have splashed his face with ice-cold water. "Everything okay?"

Ilya gulps. His hand itches to go through the same ordeal not five seconds after Shane sits back down, so he pulls away just a little bit. "Yes, sure. You?"

The only bad thing about the privacy of this place is that it's impossible to tell whether Shane is blushing. But he might be; the way he's looking to the side more than at Ilya's face would suggest so.

"Yeah. Thank you so much for that, by the way."

Ilya shrugs, forcing a smirk. "Anytime."

Shane's eyes snag on Ilya's near-empty glass. He twirls his own between his fingers, then picks it up and takes a considerable gulp. Instead of wiping his mouth clean, he pokes the tip of his tongue out and runs it over his upper lip, corner to corner. Mesmerizing.

"It's pretty good," Shane offers, putting his glass back down. His fingers remain around it, catching the condensation. It's like his fingers always need to be fidgeting with something. Ilya noticed it back at the hotel, too, and he wonders about it more now.

Ilya only gives a non-committal hum for an answer.

"Is everything okay?" Shane asks over the loud music. "You're acting different."

"I didn't get to go to a bathroom," Ilya chirps, but he doesn't believe it himself. Has he fucked up? Has he somehow fucked up by touching him like that? Has he fucked up when he suggested this whole thing?

Shane shakes his head. His smile is small, but at least it's there. "No, that's not what I mean. It's a different kind of different. What's up?"

"My dick," Ilya jokes, even though he's talked it down.

"Ha-ha, funny. I'm being serious. Did something happen while I was gone?"

"No, nothing happened, Shane. What is this, interrogation?"

Shane takes another sip, more careful this time. It's his thumb that goes to rub away any foam from the corner of his mouth, and then it continues up to his eyelashes. He does that sometimes, Ilya realizes, when he's nervous. His page on Shane Hollander is no longer empty.

"Maybe, if it gets you talking," Shane decides in the end.

Thankfully, the sound that escapes from the back of Ilya's throat—low, grunty, upset at being confronted—gets lost in the music as well. "Like teenagers calling at midnight to talk about their problems, hm? Girls talking about boys…"

"…Ilya Rozanov talking about this amazing player he met at the Prospect Cup…"

"…talking about Saskatchewan and how it is cold as balls there, maybe…"

Shane laughs. Ilya only hears the edge of it, but he can't mistake it for anything else with the way his nose scrunches up and lips stretch far and wide enough to show teeth. "Yeah, that too! I'm still being serious, though."

Ilya realizes that his hand is squeezing the mostly empty glass. He takes another sip, leaving only a few more to swirl around the bottom. "Okay," he says. He puts his other hand up to his face, pinky toward his chin, thumb just about hitting the tip of his ear. "Calling you."

"What?" Shane laughs again. Straightens himself up in the chair.

"Drrrrrrrrrn," Ilya imitates. He takes special care to make the r ring as hard as possible. "Drrrrrrrrrn."

Shane shakes his head, but he realizes that Ilya is being serious, too—he raises his brow and then, with embarrassment written clear across his features, he starts to bring up his right hand in the same manner. "This is ridiculous," he says. "We're literally sitting here together."

"Drrrrrrrrrrrrrrnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn, Shane."

Shane's hand finally settles against his face. With an eyeroll, he half-laughs, half-huffs out: "Yes, this is Shane."

"Shane!" Ilya exclaims loudly, pulling himself up in his chair as well. "I thought you were asleep, buddy!"

"Don't call me buddy," Shane retorts, cringing. "Okay. Ilya, it's very late, why are you calling me?"

"Wanted to talk about girls," Ilya answers. "Do you like them?"

"W-what?" Shane's hand falters, dropping.

"I am calling to ask if you are dating someone," Ilya explains patiently. A part of him enjoys Shane's squirming a lot, but he knows he's walking a very thin tightrope. He adjusts his tone, he switches girls for someone.

But then he realizes that that might have been an even bigger mistake.

Shane's eyes are glued to him. They're running down the length of Ilya's cheeks, they size him up, they consider and reconsider. In the end, Shane sighs. "I'm not sure," he says into his invisible phone. "I'm in Paris right now, actually."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, and there's this one… person. I'm spending the night with him."

Ilya wiggles his eyebrows. Nobody needs to know how difficult it is to breathe or how much his lungs are resisting and constricting and hitching every attempt. "Spending the night? You are very naughty."

"It's not like that," Shane rushes to say. "Well, I guess sometimes it could be like that, but not right now. I'm having a really good time with him, we're just walking around and… talking. It's nice."

Maybe Ilya's lungs will just give out altogether. He fake-gasps. "This is your dream man, yes? Describe him to me. As your friend, I have to approve."

Another shake of Shane's head. But he relents; he gives Ilya what he wants as always. "He's a hockey player like me," he starts, "and he's pretty okay at it. I think he's told me more about himself in the last five hours than he ever has before, and I think I really, really like it. I like him. It's fucking terrifying, honestly."

"Do you think he feels the same? I hope he is not just pulling you by nose."

"Pulling me by the nose?" Shane asks with a grin.

"Mm, you say leading you on, I think," Ilya amends. He's forgotten all about his beer.

"I know. You have to stop explaining English to me, huh? But yeah, I guess he could be," Shane says. It pinches, the way he doesn't struggle to find this answer or admit to it. "Maybe I should care more about that."

"Yes, maybe," Ilya agrees. It could have been a window for him to say No, I'm not, the last five hours are the best five hours I remember having. Maybe better than the night I won the Cup.

"Anyway, that's all about me," Shane says, face all bashful. "What about you, Ilya? Why are you really calling me?"

Ilya leans against the chair's backrest. Did something happen while I was gone? I'm being serious. Ilya hears Shane's voice inside his head almost on a loop, but it doesn't bring him any closer to an actual answer. Everything that's been said in between has only made the eventual response more sour, like a cherry that's been plucked off the tree a couple of days too soon.

It's Shane and his openness. It's like a lure, and Ilya wants to open his mouth and try to swallow it whole, even if it means a hook in his cheek and being pulled out of his environment to be someone's dinner.

The past five hours. Another thing that won't leave his mind. That means they have, what? Seven left. Probably less. It must be nearing midnight, or maybe it's already a few minutes past.

Ilya finally forces his lungs to work. He forces the sweet scent through his nose in one big inhale, then holds it in for a second too long. "I think maybe I made a mistake," he says. His hand is sliding down his cheek. It's barely pressed against it. "Maybe a big mistake."

"I'm sure whatever it is can be fixed," Shane says, though it's only a skeleton of his smile that remains. "Do you wanna tell me what happened?"

"I am in Paris, too," he says, "for exhibition game."

"Those are fun, though, right?"

"Mhm, they can be. Exhibition game is not the mistake. I am not alone."

"Who are you with?"

"Ah, this other hockey player with a weak backhand but beautiful freckles. I think I made a mistake with him, Shane. And if I tell him this, that I made a mistake, he is going to think I want to apologize for things in the past."

Shane forgets about his phone, too. He leans his elbows on the table instead and leans in. "Maybe he doesn't need you to apologize anymore."

"Let me finish," Ilya cuts him off. He fixes up his made-up phone, and Shane quickly follows suit. "He is going to think I want to apologize for things in the past, but this is not it. I made the mistake tonight. When I said let's go out. Let's forget who we are."

"Ilya—"

"Forget Hollander. Forget Rozanov. This is the mistake, I think, and if I tell him, he is going to hate me. And I don't know what to do with that."

When Ilya first heard the saying deer in headlights, he didn't understand it. Such a cliche, and for what? When he was small, they once went on a summer vacation. They left late because his father unexpectedly had to go some place or another, and so they were arriving at their destination very late. Under the guise of night, their car sped down old roads—Ilya's mother studied the map from her front seat, careful to give the right directions, and Ilya's brother slept next to him. There was a moment where a couple of deer jumped out of the woods on the left and seemingly over their car. There was no spare time to do anything but scream and close your eyes—Ilya didn't see them in the headlights at all.

Yet it makes sense, now, when he looks at Shane and sees his wide-open eyes, staring at him in disbelief.

"What do you mean?" Shane asks. Ilya doesn't understand how he's managing to speak over the music while making his voice sound so quiet. "What do you mean, it was a mistake?"

Ilya sighs and closes his eyes. Rubs his face, fingers digging into the corners of his eyes. He just doesn't know.

"Because I was wrong," he says in the end. "Is not something we can ever forget, Hollander."

THE ROUTE / O'NEIL

Chapter End Notes

trivia for this chapter 🍻

hiii, believe it or not, i have fewer things to yap about this time!

i pretty much just want to say that this chapter took me for a spin. i really didn't think ilya would go through so much internally and i expected the whole thing to be maybe 4000 words, not nearly double that!! i love them both so very much and i'm so so so eager to continue this conversation from shane's pov. i could talk more about why this is happening now and how i see this fic and what it means to me but that's mayhaps a little bit *too* much lol.

oh!! a little thing about o'neil: you may not think so from the picture, but resources (aka illusionxdream) tell me that during the weekends, they dim the lights a lot!! so everything they're doing really is partially covered in darkness :)

if you're enjoying this, please do leave a comment/kudo if you have the time and/or energy, i appreciate it so much. emoji comments included! ♥

i'm on threads or on tumblr! i'd love to see you there. ♥

PS: my one task for tomorrow is to reply to comments so please get ready to be sick of seeing me in your inbox!! <3

Chapter 7: 12AM

Chapter Notes

i want to give everybody the BIGGEST thank you for still reading (or just discovering this). ily so much. ♥

Shane can feel himself slipping. Finding a place to hide inside his brain instead of pulling his focus to the outside world. Ilya is wrong: forgetting is easy this way, even if it's a different kind of forgetting. Words are more difficult, true, because that's the stuff that thrives in whatever it is that we call inner, but the rest is much simpler.

He is, momentarily, not aware of their silly telephone game. His fingers could still be up by his face, but they could have slipped down and into his lap just as easily. O'Neil's red light is harder to dismiss, and the sweet scent is starting to make Shane dizzy, but all the rest floats away. The chair, the table, the half-finished beer.

He is going to hate me, Ilya says again in his ear. I was wrong. It's not something we can ever forget, Hollander.

Hearing his last name, even if just in his own head, snags him back. They've used it plenty over the course of the night—it should have a negative connotation, maybe, the way Ilya says it now, but it doesn't. It's just familiar.

"Hold on," Shane says when it dawns on him that he can't just be quiet. Yep, his fingers are still by his face. The little make-believe phone is just three white knuckles and a cramp.

Ilya is chewing the right side of his bottom lip like it's gum. It doesn't look like he's aware of how much his leg is jiggling. "So? Is he going to hate me if I tell him this?"

Shane shakes his head. Not necessarily to indicate an answer; more so as if to try and reshuffle Ilya's words in his mind so they start making sense.

He leans his elbows against the table again—but keeps the phone rodeo going this time—and hums. Just for himself; it wouldn't be audible here. Maybe if he's closer, and he can see Ilya's face better through the dark-red sheen, he'll get it. But no. Nothing but the music gets through, beat steady, lyric-less, nagging.

"'He's me, right?" Shane asks. He needs to rebuild from the ground up.

"Duh," Ilya chimes.

Wait, that's so funny how close to 'da' that is, except no, Shane's not feeling very much like laughing right now.

"So… Sorry, what are you trying to say?"

Ilya leans in, too. The tables are relatively small. To the outside world, they must look like two co-conspirators, or maybe two people hunching protectively around a secret. In reality—or, well, to Shane—this closing of space feels like temptation. He doesn't know where exactly he's left his fear, but he doesn't feel it here. Maybe there's just not enough room for it. Their elbows are only inches apart, and so are their faces. So are their finger-phones.

"Don't make me repeat it, Shane," Ilya says. The shortened distance allows him to speak a little quieter. Towards Shane instead of around and through and over the music. It means it's clear that this is not an order but a request.

Shane's knee accidentally knocks against Ilya's. Like electricity, instantly, firing down and up.

"I just don't want to misunderstand," Shane tries again. "Because to me, it kind of sounds like you think this whole thing is a mistake or whatever, but maybe that's not what you mean?"

The sweetness of O'Neil fattens up with tension.

"No," Ilya finally admits. "Not what I mean. You are so good at everything, why can't you read my mind, Shane, hm?"

Shane feels his shoulders relax when he exhales. His chest does this funny thing where it hurts but settles at the same time at the sound of his name. Later, he'll probably think back to this conversation and consider how dangerously close to misunderstanding each other they were, or how they were trying to tackle two magnanimous things all at once. In the present, though, all he can think is that everything will be fine if he's still Shane.

"Maybe because I don't know what the fuck is going on in my own mind half of the time," he answers. He does so with a sheepish smile.

Ilya returns it with a slight shake of his head.

"You answer very literally sometimes," he says. The word literally sounds so final in his mouth; he makes space for every syllable. "But not with reporters. You are very diplomatic in your interviews."

"Yeah, well." Shane gives a lazy shrug and feels his eyes flicker downwards. The tips of his ears burn up like when you walk into a warm room after taking a walk in freezing temperatures without a toque. He's thankful for the red dimness that surrounds them. "I can hardly tell them we won because we're the better team or that the other team can't tell the goal from the fucking boards."

Ilya snorts. "I like it about you," he confesses. It feels like there are a hundred other things behind it that aren't being said, but Shane is afraid to ask.

This is bad enough. Knowing that Ilya likes it means that Shane will notice every instance that he does it—or try to do it more often, even. That knowledge is uncomfortable because it's new. He's used to doing things a certain way to please others, but this is different; doing something that pleases Ilya feels like having that pleasure bounce off a wall and come back to settle in his own stomach.

Shane blinks it away. "Anyway, you're just deflecting, right? What did you mean by that? Like, that we can never forget it?"

Ilya sighs and the spell breaks. His hand relaxes and leaves his face, going instead for this beer. He finally finishes it, but the game seems to be over permanently. At least his elbows remain on the table, not giving distance a chance to grow.

"I don't know, Shane," he says dismissively.

"Bullshit." Shane forgets to stop playing. His hand's going to sleep at this point, but the fake phone is going strong. As strong as his frown. "Just tell me. I won't hate you, is that what you need to hear?" I've spent long enough trying. If silence didn't do it, this won't, either.

If possible, Ilya leans even closer. "What is this? That's the question, yes?"

"No," Shane rebuts. "The question is what the fuck were you talking about?"

"But I told you. I don't know. Something just…" Ilya trails off and looks to the side. There are people around them and on the floor below, and Shane is vaguely aware of them, but they might as well not exist. Ilya doesn't appear to really be seeing them, either. Absent-mindedly, he rubs at his chest. "It's bad feeling, that's all."

The way he says it makes Shane think that there are no dropped articles here. That Ilya simply means that he can't name it, but whatever it is, the only possible adjective to assign it would be bad-feeling.

So he asks: "What is?"

"What are we going to do?" Ilya shoots back. Incredible, the way he can answer a question with a question. "In the morning. Six am. What are we doing?"

But ah, that is the question. Shane might have thought that their conversation earlier about next months and summers and whatnots was difficult, as if the near future wasn't a beast of its own, and much more terrifying.

Shane looks down. God, he's still holding up his fingers, isn't he? He lets them fall and slide down into his lap. He's still got half a beer, too, and half the mind to drink it.

"Going back to the hotel, I guess?" he says. His other hand comes up and worries his eyelashes again. He's done it so many times in the past few hours that it's no longer as absent-minded—instead, it irritates him every time, the lash against his skin rubs the wrong way, but he can't stop. "Or we're back at the hotel already. Depends on where and when we are…"

He deems it unimportant to finish. They can both see where this is going.

"Exactly," Ilya agrees. Not with his usual eagerness, though. "Then what?"

"Morning practice, lunch, nap—probably—and then the game? Sleep, then the airport—"

"And where are we? In this, what are we doing?"

"We're Hollander and Rozanov," Shane mutters. Unsure that it was audible; almost certain it was tangible. The air shifts again.

Ilya nods. He doesn't move away, but there's a brief pull to his shoulders, like his instinct is to create a gap between them again. "So. See. I maybe never should have asked you to do this with me. Is not fair."

"You don't get to decide what's fair," Shane snaps. "And it's not like you held a fucking gun to my head, Ilya. Fuck, you didn't even have to try that hard before I said yes."

I always end up saying yes.

Ilya momentarily covers his face with his palms. Shane's had those on him before; he knows they are large plains with tall grass to hide in when they want to be.

"We can't have this, Shane," he says in the end, hopeless. "Is too much. We can’t be one thing and then a different thing in six hours."

Shane raises his eyebrow. "Yeah? I feel pretty different from, like, five hours ago. Don't you?"

"Of course I do!"

"Then—"

"Then that's the fucking problem, Hollander! I don't know how to go back to five hours ago!"

Ilya's voice is suddenly shrill. It pierces the music like a gun, and the red lights feel like maybe someone just smeared blood over the lightbulbs. Shane's body involuntarily jerks back, slightly, but the movement is there. It makes him feel like a boy, like a kid afraid of his own shadow, and the way his fingers trace the beer glass is so pretend-casual he needn't have bothered.

"I like you," he says. Stupid.

"Yes, I like you too," Ilya concedes. Still sounds angry, like this fact has wronged him more than anything or anyone else.

The worst part, naturally, is that Ilya is right.

What they have is a bubble, and if there is one thing a bubble is inevitably going to do, it is pop. They've been moving along a timeline that has a very clear endpoint, and the longer they spend on it, the harder it is to imagine getting there. Instead of six in the morning, Shane feels himself approaching a fence several thousand feet high. Even from the distance of midnight, he knows it's not something he can ever step over or grow enough muscle to bring down. How do you keep walking toward something like that?

Over the years, Shane has made Ilya Rozanov a subject of his interest. Their lives are intertwined on the ice, their careers run parallel. But Shane has tried and tried studying him. He's considered every angle, he's attempted to know Ilya in many ways, and he certainly hasn't kept this fixation strictly to the rink, either. And he has failed miserably, over and over again.

This is possibly the first time he understands.

There is life behind that fence. It's the life from five, six hours ago. Shane Hollander faces off Ilya Rozanov on (and off) the ice. They exchange pleasantries, Ilya chirps him, Shane relents. They fuck, sometimes, and the fence becomes the wall of whatever hotel room again. There is no Paris out there, no twinkling lights, no benches or boulangeries, no kissing in bookstore basements, no fingers around wrists or palms on thighs in dim-lit bars. Some talking, maybe, but probably not much. And it’s the only way that world beyond the fence can be.

It's scary, walking towards it. But Shane is brave.

He takes a big gulp of his beer and searches his pocket. When he spreads the map out on the table, he's just as careful with it as at La Tourville.

It's difficult to decipher the small black letters in this light, but he eventually manages to pinpoint Rue des Canettes. He feels Ilya's eyes on him as he circles the corner where O'Neil is. He can't find the small alley with the Abbey Bookshop—but that's fine, they can do that later.

"Look at this," Shane says, pointing the pen at the map. Lines circle and run and smudge together. "And look at this. Look at all this space, Rozanov." He motions for the rest of the map, the clicker of his pen silently running over unmarked areas. Entire arrondissements covered in mere seconds. "You don't want any of it anymore?"

Shane knows his eyes must be all shiny when he finally looks up. He feels the familiar burn that sometimes threatens to overspill, but he blames it on the beer. He blames the sheen in Ilya's eyes on it, too.

"Does it matter?" Ilya asks.

"It matters to me. You fucking owe me this."

Ilya's eyes flick from the map to Shane and back. He's shuffled closer, so now his entire body is in the close vicinity of Shane's. He's taken his elbows away, though, and his hands have disappeared under the table. For all Shane knows, he might be sitting on them.

Looking at the map dissolves Ilya's frustration. Or maybe Shane's words do—either way, he deflates a bit. His eyes turn back up and search Shane's face. "I want all of it."

It's an admission of… something. Shane is terrified to try and figure out what exactly, mostly because it would probably mirror his own feelings; he needs to know that they're going to continue walking this timeline first before he ever touches them with a ten-foot pole. He leafs, briefly, through his mind; tries to find instances of Ilya wanting something and stating it so bluntly. But he comes up empty. Whatever was between them never had to be spoken out loud, and of course they both want to win, to compete, to be the best. This is a given, too.

"Well, I want it, too," Shane says. He almost said, so what do you do if you want to score? if you want to be the best? Stepped away from it, though, and swallowed it full—Ilya wouldn't like being quizzed like a child at school.

"Shane…"

"I don't care." Shane closes his eyes and puts his pen down. "I don't give a fuck. We can be Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander for six more hours and deal with the rest of it after."

"Is that your plan?" Ilya asks. "Not very responsible."

"And I don't wanna be!" Shane exclaims. He wishes, badly, that he had the proper words to describe the mish-mash inside him. "For once in my life, I don't wanna be. Can we give each other six more hours? It's not that much."

"No," Ilya agrees. "I think is not enough. You really want this?"

But Shane knows enough now to understand that what's being asked is this: Do you really want me?

And the answer is yes. Shane's been consumed by this want for as long as they've known each other. It's not going to go away in six hours, but if they return to their hotel now, then aren't they robbing themselves of something wonderful? Something beyond imagination; something that Shane feels he must have, because otherwise, finding the point of anything is impossible. He's convinced, he's certain, that even if they have to go back to how they were before, these extra six hours will make it manageable. Nothing else—just these six hours.

"Yes," he says. And he knows what he's really answering. He chances a glance at the map, even though it's difficult to look away from the way the red light burrows in Ilya's curls. "Yes, I want this." Now give it to me.

"Okay." Like Ilya, too, knows what Shane's really answering. "We deal with the rest later, yes?"

"Yeah," Shane gulps. "Later. For now, let's just be…" This. Let me kiss you somewhere hidden. Let me want you without apology. Be mine. For six hours, let's just be each other's. "…free," he finishes.

Giddy excitement covers Shane's heart like a blanket when Ilya nods. The music sounds louder again, and the color turns from villainous to tempting again; crimson like an overripe cherry, not blood at all.

"Are you gonna finish your beer, Hollander?" Ilya asks with a raised eyebrow. Incredibly, the last name is pierced through with playfulness. It only pins Shane in reality; never even threatens to pull him away.

"Yeah," Shane confirms. "If you're lucky, I'll let you get any leftovers on my mouth with your tongue, Rozanov."

Ilya's nostrils flare as Shane picks up the glass and swirls the liquid in it before putting it to his lips. He feels a bit silly, maybe, never breaking eye contact while letting the beer roll into his mouth and down his throat—except Ilya's pupils widen and his lips form a thin line of desire. Shane makes sure to tip the glass until the foam touches the skin above his own Cupid's bow.

"Hollander," Ilya murmurs again, but it's not audible. Shane's just so familiar with the shape of him in Ilya's mouth that he'd recognize it anytime. "You player," he adds.

"The best player, you mean," Shane says evenly, putting the glass down. Forever careful, he takes the map and refolds it once again. "Let's go back to Rue de la Harpe and choose somewhere new to explore."

Even though he'll miss it—the buzzy haziness of O'Neil. He doubts he'll ever be able to scrub it off his skin, or get rid of the sweet smell, or forget the rhythmic thump of music, or ever blink again without a slight tint of red.

They spill more than step out of the bar.

It's gotten chillier outside while O'Neil only ever felt warmer. The foam residue still on Shane's upper lip crackles as they absent-mindedly flow down the street across. Instead of returning, their bodies naturally follow the familiar arms of the nearest narrow alley, almost stumbling, shoulders touching with every step.

An awning that's seen better days sits half-perched at the end of it, hiding the right side of a small T-junction. The top line of that T is far more interesting: arch after arch covers a passageway. It's bathed in shadows. Shane strains and strains, but he doesn't see anybody passing underneath or even nearby.

It's unnecessary to speak—they both understand the opportunity. If anything, it's finally impossible to tell who's leading and who's following as they both aim for the archway. Their hurried steps take them away from the hollering and music of Rue des Canettes.

Yes. The passageway is empty and pleasantly dark, and the stone is cold despite the hot day that preceded the suddenly cloudy night.

Shane knows; soon enough, his back is pressed against it, shoulder blades pushed into the unrelenting material. He shivers when Ilya cups his jaw with both hands and gently closes his mouth around the promised upper lip. Ilya's tongue is a warm, bold thing that licks the dried-up foam away; laps it up like milk. When it snakes past Shane's guard and slips into his mouth, it vaguely tastes like beer.

Shane knows; he's far too pliant and his body gives way to far too much. If he wasn't pressed against this wall and if Ilya's knee wasn't between his legs, holding him up like a makeshift chair, his legs would buckle. Need and want both always kick him down until he's falling and scraping his skin on carpets. Rarely does he ever wait to be near a bed; rarely do Ilya's hands stop him. The way he's holding him up now, irreverent, is the last scrap of reason. Should Ilya's legs buckle…

Shane knows; his arms are two irresponsible animals. While his mouth opens up for Ilya to taste it, hi come in, his hands grab fistfuls of Ilya's shirt. They loosen up the hoodie still tied around his waist until it barely hangs there, and they scramble to find the band of his pants. They won't dare go in, of course, but they want the idea of it existing. The idea of the skin of Ilya's lower back so warm; the idea of his hips so close.

Ilya licks into Shane's mouth one more time and then retreats. It almost draws out a whine, just as Ilya's hands disappear too—but then Ilya puts his lips, parted, on Shane's jaw. They trail and trail down until they lean heavy and still against his pulse point.

Shane is suddenly very warm. His neck is on fire and it's all because of Ilya's mouth, wet and patient, simply resting against his skin.

Almost on their own, Shane's fingers fall into Ilya's curls and burrow.

Ilya exhales and his breath is hot, so hot as it easily sinks into Shane. His hand comes to rest at Shane's hip. It expertly slides underneath the layers, skipping over Shane's hoodie and shirt. He can feel the press of Ilya's thumb against his hipbone. It digs in, not nearly as patient, and Shane's body bucks at the same time as Ilya's rolls. The wave of it pushes Shane harder against the stone.

"Fuck," Shane mumbles. He angles his face away, granting more access, but Ilya never even touches the tip of his tongue against the constant thumping. BOOM-BOOM-BOOM, goes Shane's heart, and it only accelerates when he realizes Ilya can feel every single beat. "Fuck, Ilya."

Blunt but quiet Russian presses against Shane's throat. Ilya's hand grips. Then: "I can't, fuck, Shane."

Although Shane tries to keep Ilya in place, no not yet don't leave yet I need you there I need your mouth, Ilya pulls away.

Shane feels drunk. It's not the beer and it's certainly not the wine they drank ages ago. The only thing running up and down his body is Ilya. Always is, somehow. He feels him all over his lips, he feels him against his skin, and there, the thumb is still kneading the skin on his hip as if trying to bruise.

"What did you say," Shane utters dumbly.

"Hm?"

"You just said something in Russian." Shane gulps, trying to swallow down how much he wants this. "What was it?"

Ilya leans closer again, like he can only say this into that same spot. Impossibly, his breath feels even hotter. "I said, I want to fuck you right here."

I can't. Ah, makes sense.

Shane gulps again. "I want it, too," he admits. His voice betrays how much, and he hates it; he hates how crystal-clear it is through his rasp.

When they kiss again, Shane is taken aback by its slowness. He expected the clashing of mutual need, but it's merely two mouths opening up for each other. Their tongues meet messily, but it's deep rather than hungry; slow rather than rushed. Shane takes what's given to him: he's gripping Ilya's hoodie again, pulling him closer, sucking his tongue in. Not letting go, never letting go.

If they don't stop soon, he's going to have more than a little problem—but how do you stop something that feels so… Shane knows he's going to die if they stop. He just knows it.

Laughter sounds from the top of the street, and that is the only thing that breaks them apart.

Ilya pulls away and his eyes are all glassy; it's good to see that he feels equally drunk, equally high. There's a small swell beginning to form in Shane's lips from finally being kissed, and they're both breathless. A small sliver of light catches on Ilya's mouth and reveals the delicious wetness that coats it. That's Shane right there.

"God, Rozanov," Shane says with a smirk. "I already said I liked you."

Ilya's grin is a small, almost shy thing. "Never hurts to make sure," he says, and then his hand is gone after all. They land back in the real world. If there even is such a thing as the real world—after being kissed like that.

"Wanna go?" Shane asks, his voice tiny.

"There are other places like this in Paris," Ilya says. His hand touches the arch one more time, palm wide open, almost caressing. "If not, we come back every hour."

"What, to make out?" Shane snorts.

"To remind Shane Hollander that he likes me," Ilya corrects.

Shane tsks. At this point, they must both know that such reminders are unnecessary. The truth is that if Shane tried to match his steps to the rhythm of his heart, he'd have to start running.

Their pace is brisk as they finally set down the street. There really are no stars in the sky when Shane looks up—nothing but clouds he can’t tell apart meets his eye. The temperature drops, or maybe he just cools down once Ilya's touch becomes a was thing instead of is, and they make it back onto the wide Boulevard in record time. No point in rushing anyway—even if it started raining, it's not like they have shelter to run to.

People are still milling about despite the hour, and Shane is content to talk beside Ilya in silence.

For once, his mind is equally quiet. He carefully digs around, just to see if there's anything that's trying to fight its way to the forefront, but he comes up empty. The tiredness he briefly felt before O'Neil is gone, too. If anything, he feels the opposite: wide awake, wide alive.

At some point, Ilya wordlessly hands him one of the kouign-amanns, and Shane wordlessly accepts it to take a bite.

Oh, Shane's mind is so quiet because the street is quiet—compared to the bar, at least. He realizes when he hears Ilya's moan loud and clear.

"This is incredible food, Hollander," he announces. When Shane looks to him, he sees two puffed up cheeks. Ilya has shoved most of his pastry into his mouth and has successfully made himself look like a hamster.

Shane laughs. The kouign-amanns aren't even fresh anymore. "You've never had these before?"

Ilya shakes his head and speaks with his mouth full. "Neber. Bud now I fould go to far for dem."

"Oh my God, gross." Still, it makes Shane laugh as he takes another bite of his own. "Would you quit hockey for them?"

Humming thoughtfully, Ilya actually finishes chewing while he ponders the question. "How many? Couple or a lot?"

"Like, a lifetime supply of them."

"Mm, maybe."

"You're impossible," Shane comments, but it makes him think of a different world anyway: one where, in the early morning, he gets to leave a warm bed, and walk to a nearby patisserie, and pick up a freshly-baked kouign-amann, and bring it back, and watch Ilya's face as it wakes to the smell.

He finishes the pastry in silence, but his mind is a little louder again.

After a brief discussion, they turn left onto Boulevard Saint-Michel. During Shane's first Paris visit, he remembers their three-member entourage getting lost around here, but he also remembers that it didn't scare him. Something about the maze of streets and robust buildings felt peaceful even though it was the time before smartphones. It didn't surprise him at all that they eventually found where they were going (although he no longer remembers that). Something about the neighborhood just seems inherently friendly.

It seems impossible to get lost here, though. The Boulevard is far too wide and far too open. So much so that it feels stupid to be seeking contact so much. Yes, there are still people walking up and down the same sidewalk, but there's enough space for everybody. So why is Shane so dead-set on brushing his shoulder with Ilya's every single time? Why is he so obsessed with letting his hand hang limp by his side on the off-chance that he'll feel Ilya's fingers catching it or curling into it?

The minutes they spend walking have started to blur together, but the Boulevard eventually opens its mouth even wider and spits them out into a large area.

Shane orients himself easily even though it's been years. "Hey, look," he says, pointing to their right.

The Notre Dame cathedral stands in the distance, mild yellow lighting accentuating the shape. In Shane's memory, it appears much taller—but maybe he was just very small. Either way, it looks perhaps more romantic than the Eiffel Tower even though it may come across as less graceful with its curves. It's the mellow undertones, Shane thinks, that make it look so warm.

"Pretty," Ilya says, and there are no comments on it being made from ugly metal. He must like it, too.

Here, the traffic is still busy. They wait their turn and cross the street, sticking to the side of the Saint Michel bridge.

"Let's get closer," Shane suggests. "I don't know if we can still go inside at this hour, probably not, but it might be nice to see it properly."

"Maybe there are the…" Ilya trails off, drawing half-oval shapes with his hand instead.

Shane smiles. "Archways?"

"Yes. Sorry," he intones, "I don't use English to talk about architecture a lot."

"That's so weird, right, that it never comes up during hockey interviews."

Ilya gives a small laugh. "I remember one time. Reporter asked you if you liked the Bell Centre and you talked about 'modern architecture'."

Shane sheepishly stuffs his hands into his pockets and looks to the ground. He has to bite back a smile. "Jesus Christ," he mumbles, "wasn't that during our rookie year?"

"Maybe," Ilya grants with a nudge at Shane's shoulder.

Crazy, Shane thinks. Crazy that you remember me as well as I remember you.

There are still plenty of people here. It seems that Paris really doesn't sleep—the crowds of tourists are thinner but they're still crowds. For all he knows, they all might just be on their way to a club somewhere and stopping to do some midnight sightseeing anyway. Shane can't blame that. He knows that part of the magic he feels is Ilya, but the other part is the city itself.

That sparks a thought, though.

"This is real, right?" Shane hears himself saying before he can even form the question properly. He looks to the Seine, on his right, and at lit up buildings, on his left. He is somewhere in the middle, small compared to the stream and to the never-ending thread of doors and windows and floors. Shane Hollander, fidgeting to be something great all the time but tiny, stuck.

"Whatchu mean?" Ilya asks, seemingly lost in his own head.

"This… thing. Like, yeah, we deal with the rest later, but—is this real? Right now, or the date or whatever at O'Neil. All that stuff…"

"Shane," Ilya says. He sounds scary-gentle. He never sounds like that. Even the way he puts his hand on Shane's elbow is soft; brings them to a slow stop by the edge of the river. Thunder sounds in the distance all of a sudden, and it's in such contrast with Ilya's tenderness that Shane jerks.

"Yeah?"

"This is more real to me than… I don't know. It is maybe the realest thing I've ever felt. Is it not real to you?"

There's genuine worry in the few creases on Ilya's face. It's not deep enough to change his features, but it's plenty prominent as Shane watches his eyes jump across Shane's face—into his eyes, at his mouth, even at the line of his nose or jawline as if they held secret answers.

"Yeah," Shane breathes out. "It's the realest fucking thing to me, too, I just worried… It's stupid. I thought maybe we were just kidding, or playing a game."

Shane bites his lip in anticipation of a quip or something that would make light of it. When it doesn't come, he's more than surprised.

"I can play and win games against you allll year round, Hollander. Not a game now." Another phrase in Russian unfurls from his lips; he tsks like he's frustrated with himself and repeats it in English. "I promise."

"Me too," Shane rushes to say. "I promise."

Like it's the natural order of things, or maybe like the weather was just waiting for them to finish up, small raindrops start falling. At first, Shane notices them as they disrupt Ilya's curls—then feels them, too, when they start peppering his cheeks. He's reminded once more of that summer storm so long ago. Some part of him must still be so young and carefree; he looks up to the sky at the darkness above them. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches the flash of lightning as it forks right above Notre Dame. And he still wants to go towards it; he still wants to meet the storm halfway.

"Run," he says.

They race up the sidewalk side by side until they reach a set of stairs. The rain has turned into a downpour that's starting to soak through Shane's clothes. He feels giddy, though, giddy like a child.

Stumbling, they quickly skip down stair by stair. Not to hide—not really. Just to wait it out, together.

THE ROUTE / THE ARCHWAY

Chapter End Notes

trivia for this chapter 😘

i genuinely think i could spend hours analyzing shane's behavior in this chapter and still have more to say. i understand that here, he is very much #myshane, but i believe in him a hundred percent lol. i just keep thinking about the both of them in 2014 -- ilya, a small scared boy who needed to be *told* that he's brave; shane, a small brave boy who walked up to ilya in that sochi arena like it was nothing. i think they need different versions of each other throughout their lives and to me, this is them meeting in the middle at this point in their journey. and i love them so so so so so much.

small suspension of belief: it was *not* rainy in paris that night, but i really wanted it to be. :))

so that conversation, huh? bet you didn't think it was gonna go that way, or that they'd reach this specific conclusion together. we're ALL scared for 6AM. including me. 🥲

if you're enjoying this, please do leave a comment/kudo if you have the time and/or energy, i appreciate it so much. emoji comments included! ♥

i'm on threads or on tumblr! i'd love to see you there. ♥

Chapter 8: 1AM

Chapter Notes

i updated the end of chapter 7 - idk where i was looking but there's no bridge to hide under, so it's now just a set of stairs they ran to.

cw for a brief discussion on the death of a relative (shane's grandma, as mentioned in chapter 1). no sick talk.

hi. hi. hi. thank you so much for being here. ♥ i wrote some fluff for you.

Notre Dame is a lit-up smudge on the dark horizon when Ilya looks to it through the downpour.

They're not the only two people who decided to seek shelter; the stairs are packed. Good thing: Shane's body is pressed so close to his that it feels like they're melting into each other. Bad thing: not a second goes by that Ilya isn't shoved from the back or from his other side. Overall, it feels like they're a very fragile structure that's about to be knocked over and go flying down.

Come to think about it, he's not really sure where the stairs lead anyway. Could be a public restroom, could be a station, could be an underground cult, really.

Regardless, it's well past midnight, which means it's the day of their exhibition game, which means all of them are stuck here when they'd definitely rather be doing something else.

People around them chat idly or squeal about the weather, but Ilya's biting his lip and looking out like he's a kid trying to imagine the real outside world. Palm against the window, wondering what it's like to drive a car, or go places, or not have to answer to anyone.

The raindrops create a heavy patter on the concrete steps, and Ilya has a lot of really nice, really fast cars, and he can go places, but he still has to answer to so many people bigger than him. The NHL, sure, and his brother who always wants money, and his father who wants—well, Ilya really isn't sure. Never has been. All he knows is that the man would not look at him kindly if he saw him here, standing next to Shane Hollander, shoulders glued together.

A high-pitched voice from the back yells something that sounds like Rozanov. It must not be because Shane doesn't react at all, but it makes the hairs on the back of Ilya's neck stand at attention.

Even though the rain isn't showing any signs of stopping, Ilya squirms. He doesn't like standing here like a canned sardine. Everything is so humid and mucky, and time's not standing still with them, either. It's ticking away, speeding up together with the storm, ushering them along.

Ilya sighs—not that it's clear over the rain—and leans into Shane's shoulder. "I want to go," he says just for him to hear.

Shane looks at him like he's lost his mind. "It's pouring like crazy, Ilya," he argues. "We'll get soaked within, like, two minutes."

"Is just a bit of rain," Ilya shrugs.

Shane raises his eyebrow at the same time as lightning strikes the sky again and thunder echoes like somebody's fist coming down hard on a table. Really? his eyes seem to be saying. Amused, mostly, with a hint of worry crouching in the corners.

"Come onnn," Ilya whines. "Let's just go, yes? I am not sugar cube, you are not sugar cube, let's go."

He knows he's whined like this before. I want to fuck youuu, he said once upon a time with Scott Hunter next door, and he wonders now whether Shane remembers. Has he ever realized that it was Ilya slipping from underneath the mask of Rozanov, or has he always heard it as playful, teasing, more of a I wanna be inside you and mock you about how tight you are kind of thing, the usual, and not as if I don't fuck you tonight I think I might die instead, I need to be closer to you, when you're here that's when I am here too, without you I don't know what or where I am at all. Already—yeah, already in that hotel room—Ilya knew.

And so what if the same tone slips out now? It's true enough, and there's real desperation in it even if it curls itself into a childish groan.

"O-okay," Shane nods with a bit of hesitation. "You're right, yeah, let's just go."

Ilya can't yelp or scream or tug on Shane's arm in excitement, but he leans into him in a silent thank you.

Skips up the stairs back into the onslaught.

As they both step out and away from their shelter, somebody behind them whoops. It makes Ilya laugh, and the heavy drops of rain feel refreshing when they hit his face instead of irritating.

"Now what?!" Shane asks over the heavy fall, voice rising to get over the constant pounding.

"We walk!" Ilya yells back. Thunder sounds again, still loud. "Or we run."

In the end, they opt for something in the middle. The suburban moms of Boston would call it power walking, though they usually stay indoors when there's a raging storm. Not Ilya. Ilya simply tries to ignore how soaked he's becoming as they cross the bridge in front of Notre Dame, and focuses instead on looking to Shane every chance he gets.

Drops get caught in Shane's eyelashes from time to time and then roll down across his freckles when he blinks them away.

Strangely, it makes Ilya think of the Most Holy Mother of God, myrrh-streaming in Moscow; their Orthodox softener of evil hearts. There is no correlation. Ilya doesn't know much about religion, but he's read up on the phenomenon on one lonely night or another. The supposed blood leaking out of her eyes when catastrophes strike is little beyond superstition or blind belief to him, and he knows they have a different meaning than Shane ever would, but seeing his face streaked with this sudden rain must be close to a religious experience in its own way.

He feels at peace. They're rushing down (or up?) some random street he's never seen before, and he feels at peace. And he knows it would be different if he were here alone. The lightning and thunder are retreating, but that's not the only thing that's keeping him light on his tired feet.

It's the same thing that kept them feeling so leaden before, actually. That lead felt real, too, and the realness of this doesn't negate it, but maybe, if given the chance, Ilya would say do not stop the rain. Don't clear up the skies, don't let the sun rise, don't take him away from Paris.

"Ilya, we need to find somewhere to hide," Shane says eventually. It's taken about two minutes for the bubble to burst.

The rain is unrelenting, though. Ilya's brand-new hoodie is soaked through and his body, head to toe, feels like he's just taken a thorough shower.

"Yes, but where?" Because he still refuses to stand still somewhere.

"I don't know! You said let's go so maybe figure it out!"

Ilya groans. "You're the one with the map!"

"I am not taking it out, are you insane? It would get soaked immediately. The pen would run!"

"Is water resistant!" Ilya reminds him, but Shane shoots him such a frowny, upset look that Ilya holds his hands up in defeat. "Bozhe moy, yes, fine, let's find somewhere dry so we can look, okay?"

Shane nods. They rush up the widening street. The space on their left eventually opens up into a cobble-stoned square, smaller than Ilya's gotten used to here, but there are a few awnings they can slip under.

They huddle like ducklings in the amazingly dry shelter of one of them, and Shane whips out the map. It makes Ilya realize that his hand has been hidden in his pocket the whole time, like he's been covering the folded piece of paper with every step. Despite the dropped temperature, Ilya feels warm.

"Okay," Shane mumbles while the rain continues tapping on the awning. "First we need to figure out where we are. So this is the Seine and if this is Notre Dame…"

Shane's fingers don't quite touch the map as he peruses it. They just hover an inch or so above it, and he's chewing his lip furiously.

"Mhm," Ilya agrees but his eyes are anywhere but the map.

At first, he allows himself another look at Shane. The leftover drops running down his face seem lonesome in their descent now, but there are many still glistening in his hair. We're being so stupid, Illya thinks. They have a game tomorrow—today—and a practice to go to, and images to uphold, and instead they're trying to end up with pneumonia. It makes him smirk. It makes him think of a teenagehood he never had, and how he'd have wished to have it next to Hollander anyway.

Ilya sighs and looks away to the melodic tune of "…and then if we took the left here…" and takes in his surroundings. The street lamps' lights are still a little spotty, but the downpour has mellowed down into rain. Maybe they could wait it out here— Thunder echoes again, directly above their heads, and a strong wind picks up.

Ilya's eyes follow a very sad-looking planter that has dislodged itself from somewhere and is now pitifully rolling down the street. Then they jump to a group of teenagers, shrieking and running to the—

"Metro," Ilya says flatly.

"…then we're here!" Shane exclaims at the same time. His head snaps up and he follows Ilya's gaze. "Oh. Metro."

"Yes, let's go."

This time, it's purposeful when Ilya catches Shane's hand in his. The public place of it all only bothers him briefly; there aren't many people around and those who are are battling the same situation. It doesn't matter to anyone but Ilya that fingers intertwine and damp skin meets damp skin as they walk against the wind, towards the Metro.

Even though they've only done it once, the process feels familiar. In a way, it's a connecting piece between five (sixnow) hours ago and the present. They hop down the stairs, they purchase their tickets, and they ultimately end up in front of two boards going in two different directions. The only difference is that this station is darker, almost eerie at this hour—Ilya's surprised the Metro's still running, although they might be about to catch the last train.

Another difference is Shane, who stands equally tall in front of the boards, and asks: "What stupid game do you wanna play now? I'm not touching this again. I left my hand sanitizer somewhere."

"Is in my pocket," Ilya says with a shrug. "You forgot it on the table at that coffee place. But you're right, Hollander, this should be a new game."

"I mean, thank you," Shane replies softly. A little fidgety, even.

"So, you read all the names, yes? You can read?"

"Obviously…?"

"But you have to read them the French way. Then I decide what sounds best and we go there."

Both of Shane's eyebrows go up—slowly, deliberately. "This is your game," he says with a smirk that's threatening to pull the corner of his mouth up.

"Yes. Do it."

"Maybe I'd rather touch the board, actually."

"Shane, we will miss the last train, and then what? Two boys, lost in Paris, no phones…"

"Which is your fault. And we're both fully grown adults."

"Just read them in French!" Ilya urges, talking with his hands.

His frustration is play-pretend, and for a split second, he wonders whether he's being too much. It wouldn't be the first time. He has an inkling that he might be wrong, but he used to think that's why his family, and his brother in particular, dislikes or hates him. The hand-waving and face-pulling and noise-making in bursts of expression that nobody else ever seemed to understand or mirror. The only person who hasn't recoiled at Ilya's lewdness and loudness is Svetlana. She laughs and she smiles and she pillow-fights him or bites his shoulder or slaps at him like a cat and that's home, too.

Ilya's forgotten that this home is different. That it might pull inward at his play.

But Shane shakes his head and snickers. "Fine, fine. You big baby."

Châtelet, Shane reads and Ilya follows it on the board at first. Les Halles. Étienne Marcel. When he gets to Réaumur-Sébastopol, it becomes impossible to focus on the names. The thing is that Shane's tongue slips over the letters at first and he has to attempt it twice, and Ilya's eyes jump to him and his flushed cheeks on their own. Slip down to his mouth.

Ilya has a tucked-away memory that swims up to the surface now. In it, he's a small thing almost done with and undone by his rookie season. This small thing rests in a hotel room, and hotel rooms still feel fresh and luxurious and unfamiliar here, and the small TV is full of one Shane Hollander. Ilya remembers despising the easy French spoken to a good-looking reporter, and a TV remote gripped and flung at the same time. So perfect with his perfect fucking French or something like it, but really it was just a show of impatience. Almost like that boy in that hotel room knew that somewhere in the future was a Metro station board and perfect Shane Hollander in front of it, saying Strasbourg-Saint Denis and Château d'Eau.

Knew or hoped but couldn't wait to get to him regardless. And now he's here.

"That one," Ilya interrupts when Shane arrives at a particularly long one. It bobs like a buoy at first and then slips into a second word that sounds like leaves rustling. A prolonged shh sound sits in the middle, just before Shane's lips part and blow out the rest like a candle. Ilya looks to the board; he thinks it might have been Barbès-Rochechouart. "I like that one."

"Okay," Shane agrees easily. Ilya takes in his profile; he's expecting to see relief, but it's the same easiness reflected in the lines of his face and the sharp angle of his nose.

"You're not gonna fight me on it?" Ilya asks, just like he did right after they left the hotel.

Shane looks to him, eyebrows still playfully raised. "Do you want me to?" he shoots back.

"No," Ilya replies with a grin. "Let's go."

Once they get to the platform, it's pretty clear that this will be the last train. It's the only one up on the board next to the small blue CITÉ sign, and there are only a few people milling about. It seems that the same thing has happened to all of them and they are desperately running away from the storm.

They have to wait a little longer, too, and there are no more singers to distract Ilya from standing around. With each passing second, he feels just how wet his clothes are. The gust of wind just before the train rushes into the station makes it especially clear—he shivers like it's the dead of winter and not the middle of summer.

Everybody shuffles onto the train without haste when it stops. Very few people get off, too, and Ilya wonders if they've found the one moment in time that Paris feels sleepy. Everybody's either at home or at a party, no doubt, and whoever's left is nothing to talk about.

Shane sits down, and Ilya next to him, in an empty four-seater not dissimilar from the one they sat in before. A bachelor party at the other end of the carriage is drunkenly singing I Was Made for Lovin' You by KISS, and every single piece of thread seems to be clinging to Ilya's body in the most uncomfortable way.

He's not the only one. It doesn't take Ilya long to notice that Shane is fidgeting one second and then sitting very still the next, almost like he's trying to shake an army of ants and then trying to see if he's succeeded. His cheeks are still flushed, but the playfulness disappeared when they sat down—replaced by a frown and a certain tug at his lip that repeats itself over and over, almost like there are invisible teeth pulling it down.

"What's wrong?" Ilya asks, leaning in.

"Everything is so wet," Shane murmurs back like it's a dirty secret. "It's driving me insane, it feels all wrong and I just—it's disgusting, I don't know." He digs his fingers into the hoodie and squeezes as if trying to wring it.

"Take it off," Ilya instructs. "You will be cold but arms will dry off. Give it."

"I'm the one being a baby," Shane grumbles, but he listens to the instruction and carefully pulls the hoodie over his hand. He hands it to Ilya like it's a rag he just tried to clean a mine wall with.

"Now sit still and tell me something," Ilya says. He spreads the hoodie open and lays it on his thighs. He finds it disgusting, too—everything so warm and cold at the same time, moist and damp and terrible—but evidently less so.

"Like what?"

"You look funny with your hair like that," Ilya comments, pointing at the wet bird's nest. "Like a teenager. Tell me about July when you were fifteen."

"There's not much to tell," Shane deflects, experimentally running his fingers through his hair and trying to slick it down. When he realizes it's as wet as the rest of him, he quickly stops. "I think that's when my grandma died, actually."

"Were you close?"

Shane shrugs; winces. "Not really, I guess? I was a weird kid and I feel like I didn't make a lot of effort. She didn't speak a lot of English and I didn't—still don't—speak a lot of Japanese, so it was difficult. I think we both tried in our own ways, but it always felt like there was a gap between us."

"Oh, okay."

"I mean, not because she was Japanese," Shane rushes to say. "I actually think she was maybe too much like me and it was hard to meet in the middle? She had her ways and I had mine, and then when she got sick, it was already all about hockey for me. I regret it, sometimes, that I didn't try harder or that we didn't really find a better way to communicate, I guess."

Ilya nods. He understands; maybe more than Shane would expect. Sure, he can't really offer any commentary on being Japanese-Canadian and failing to connect with your heritage, but his chest feels tighter anyway when he thinks about it. It's a bit like him and his mother, he thinks. He loves her more than anything, and probably always will, but it crosses his mind from time to time that his love for her is doubled or tripled for the lack of somebody else to give it to when he was younger.

"Did you love her?" he asks quietly. It's a weird conversation to be having on a train.

"Love is complicated," Shane answers earnestly. "I never know how to work it out, honestly. There's no logic to it and I don't know how to recognize it sometimes."

Ilya mulls it over, then nods. "Yes, I think I know what you mean."

Shane presents him with a small smile in response. At the back of his mind, Ilya wonders whether what they have could be classified as such; that is, classified as love. A series of images flashes through, ranging from cold parking lots to face-offs on the ice to everything that has happened here. It's so abrupt and unexpected that he shakes his head as if trying to get it out like he's a human saltshaker. No. Surely not. It's a push-and-pull with feelings neither of them can afford, and it terrifies Ilya that it even crosses his mind in the first place.

"What about you?" Shane asks. Another thing that Ilya knows about him now: Shane's earnest questions are a completely different pitch. It's something unnoticeable at first, but once you know it's there, it's impossible to overlook.

"Mm, what about me?"

"You at fifteen."

"That's the year with Madama Butterfly," he responds like that's a book opened, leafed through and now closed.

"Yeah, but, what about the summer of that year? Tell me something."

Ilya mulls this over, too, but doesn't quite manage to nod. There isn't a lot to tell. Ilya at fifteen is much the same as Ilya now, in that he feels like he only exists in various increments and performing well at his job (then a future job) feels detrimental to all of them.

He rakes his brain for a memory that wouldn't be a sad reiteration of what's already been said. Like oh, do you want to hear about my dead mother, about my father, about my brother, about my stepmother?

"First time I kissed a boy," he says all of a sudden. There must be some faulty wiring in his brain—why else would he think of this and then immediately spit it out? Like meat, hardly chewed.

Surprisingly, though, Shane seems interested. "Your coach's son?" he asks with his eyes so hungry for the meat Ilya wanted to discard so quickly.

Crazy, Ilya thinks. Crazy that you remember me as well as I remember you.

"Da, yes, Sasha."

"Sasha." Shane says it with no inflection, but the name sounds wrong. About as wrong as Sasha felt back in Sochi, but that's a can of worms Ilya doesn't ever want to open.

Something else clicks then and Ilya laughs. "Fuck, he lives in Paris now."

"Shit, really?" Shane's eyes skitter around the train car like he's truly expecting to see him here, shirt unbuttoned and smelling of expensive cologne, sauntering to Ilya to sit in his lap.

"Yes. Relax," Ilya mumbles. "If he is not fucking some random guy in his apartment, then he's clubbing somewhere."

"Wow, that's…" Shane trails off; catches himself at the last second, but his unsaid sentence is pretty clear. That's not like you, Ilya fills in. "Really not boring."

"Is very boring," Ilya argues. "More boring than you ever were, Hollander, and I don't think you are so boring anymore."

This seems to placate Shane more than letting his arms dry out. He's suddenly all smiles, with a twinkle of mischief. "So tell me about the kiss," he says, circling back. "You were fifteen, and it was the first time you were kissing a boy…"

Ilya wants to fake-gasp. Wants to say Ha, I didn't know you were such a gossip, Hollander. Maybe even What are you, a WAG? But instead, he smirks and tilts his head a bit. "And it was very messy and tasted like vodka. But good expensive vodka."

"That's not super glamorous," Shane comments with his nose all scrunched.

"No, I'm surprised I kissed him a second time." And a third and a fourth and then so many more times after, like Sasha was a pitcher Ilya was trying to pour something into before it went all rotten and moldy inside him. "When is the first time you kissed a boy?"

And Shane just looks at him. Body pressed against the train's cold window, hair slowly drying, trying not to shiver in his damp clothes. Ilya is trying hard not to shiver, too, and it only gets harder the more Shane stares at him. There's no mistaking what he's trying to say—that is, his first kiss with a boy was the one they shared behind the door of 1410.

A slow smile stretches Ilya's face. He can feel it, but vaguely; he's in two places at once. Another memory, not so tucked away, more so frequently perused, bubbles up. Shane and his young eager mouth and soft wet tongue; his quick instinct to sink to his knees as if trying to tell Ilya not to leave.

Maybe it could have been a better kiss. Maybe they could have done so much better.

"Good for you," Ilya says with a smirk. "That was a really great first kiss."

"Yeah," Shane says a little dreamily. "I think about it sometimes."

Ilya wiggles his eyebrows. "Like when?"

Shane gives a shake of his head and rolls his eyes. "Fuck you, Rozanov."

"I just want to know!"

"I'm not telling you anything. Forget about it."

"No fun," Ilya whines again with a pout. "You can take this back if you are so mean." He bunches up Shane's hoodie, still damp even though less so, and throws it right at Shane's head.

"You asshole!" Shane exclaims, but it dances out of his mouth on a laugh. He's quick to bunch it back up, too, and use his well-practiced aim to hit Ilya in the face with it. "I think about it, isn't that enough? I bet you don't think about it at all!"

Ilya takes the hoodie and covers half his face with it. Wiggles his eyebrows again suggestively, look at me I'm keeping a secret.

"Do you?" Shane asks incredulously.

Ilya laughs into the fabric that smells like Shane and rain and French pastry. Before he pulls it away, he takes a deep breath and wishes, for a second, that he could disappear in it. Smell is the strongest, least forgetful sense. Ilya remembered his mother's scent much longer than anything else; her face smudged first, then her voice lost its pitch, but her odor lingered. Maybe he'll remember this, too, if the way he clings to it is anything to go by.

"Yes, Hollander," he says in the end. "I think about it often."

For the rest of the train ride—once Shane has made sure that his hands are sufficiently dry—they peruse the map and mark everything they've missed. It's the first time Ilya wishes he bought one for himself, too; he doesn't want to forget the heart Shane draws on Rue des Canettes, or the :D face he puts by the boulangerie where Ilya tripped.

It's all too much and not enough.

Their clothes are still glued to their bodies when they finally arrive at the Barbès–Rochechouart station. It would be worrisome if they didn't get out to the pleasantly cool air and much clearer skies.

It's rained here, too; there are puddles everywhere and the sidewalks are all wet, but if they'd spent the last hour underground, they'd never know about the lightning or the thunder or what the Notre Dame cathedral looks like when it's nothing but a blurry structure against its warm lights.

"Feel better?" Ilya asks, handing Shane his hoodie.

"Yeah, thanks. Much." He doesn't throw it over his head, though, like cold-damp is even worse than damp and he'd rather be cold for a few minutes.

Ilya, who's never even put the hoodie on, now finally unties it from around his waist and hangs the sleeves loosely over his shoulder so that it can dry against his back. There are still three uneaten kouign-amanns in there, but the problem is that they've been rained and sat on.

He groans. "Nooo, Shane," he wails as they step out of the station and into the outside world.

"What? What's up?"

"My pastries died," Ilya says mournfully. "I think they're mashed potatoes now."

Shane bites his lip to stop himself from smiling. "What a terrible tragedy, Mr Rozanov," he says instead. "Can I offer you my deepest condolences?"

"No," Ilya says with the wave of his hand. "But you can buy me more in the morning, Mr Hollander."

This time, the smile is let out, no teeth to keep it caged. Yet it's almost a sad thing, and Ilya quickly realizes why. Buy me more in the morning—as if they would have that morning. As if, by sunrise, they wouldn't be thinking about cabs and hotels and exhibition games. As if—humor it for a moment—they would continue walking these streets until they've walked all of them, and Shane would buy a pastry on some corner or another, and it would taste just as good, breaking the rule of the first taste of something new being the best.

Just like them.

"Can we walk around a bit?" Shane asks like that's not what they've been doing this whole time. "Just to dry off more."

"Yes, sure."

The moon peeks out from behind a cloud. It's high up, but so are the buildings around them; it looks like they're holding the silver light in the sky or allowing it to sway there until everything turns into daylight again. Ilya briefly wonders how late it is, and whether it's two in the morning yet. That would still be okay—that would still be late night, not early morning.

Thoughtlessly, they turn right. It's interesting if not funny that they are still not alone (neveralone), and they cross paths with people while they continue down the sidewalk.

Uncomfortable at first, Ilya eventually gets used to the feeling of dampness—or maybe it dissipates. He figures out when it's the latter when he starts feeling cold enough to try putting the hoodie on; it's mostly dry, apart from the seams around the sleeves. He feels warmer almost immediately, but it makes him feel… slower instead of cozier, better.

"Are you feeling tired?" Shane asks, apparently on constant Ilya-watch. He puts his own hoodie on, the Eiffel Tower pin nice and dry.

"No," Ilya lies. But he can feel it in his legs. It's a lot of hours that they've been walking around now, on little sleep. Put jetlag into the mix like salt into a meal and you have one fuck of a soup.

"You're a really bad liar," Shane muses idly. "I'm starting to feel it, I think. I thought the two coffees would give me a heart attack but I think I'm about to crash or something."

"You need somebody to sweep you off your feet?"

"And carry me bridal style. No. I'm just saying. We might have to do another race or something to wake me up."

"Can be arranged," Ilya says. "Is my turn to win."

"In your fucking dreams."

They reach a corner and both come to a standstill. There suddenly seems to be no meaning in going forward or taking a turn; like for all their talk of not having a destination in mind throughout, they've reached it anyway. And now what? Sit down for another drink? Wander more, aimlessly, more aimlessly, share histories that won't matter in five (fournow) hours, look at each other, look for archways, look around? Maybe.

Shane turns on his heel and looks back toward where they came from. "Do you wanna go back or…?"

Ilya shrugs. He looks, again, at Shane's face. Shane is always so… alert. Always there. His eyes are seemingly taking in everything unless they're looking somewhere far away, but even then, Ilya can see his mind racing behind them. Never empty, always searching. Ilya could keep looking at him, and that's maybe the scariest part.

"I don't care," Ilya says truthfully. He's a little woozy from the sudden tiredness. Part of him wants to plop down and take a nap. "We can do the race back if you still want."

"Yeah, sure—" Shane lets himself trail off. His eyes get stuck on something between the street and Ilya's face. "Look. That's beautiful."

Ilya obediently turns around, too, and follows Shane's gaze.

There's what appears to be a graffiti painting on the wall in front of them, of a woman with wavy hair and a slightly upturned nose. She has no mouth, but she's looking right at them from the side. The eyes are doing all the talking. Her background is checkered and snowflake-y and symmetrical and not, and Ilya finally realizes that it's not a painting. Somebody carved her into the wall with precision and care. She may not even be real, but she was real enough to whoever decided to trap her in this one moment forever—or until somebody brings the wall down.

Ilya feels like this, too. Well, not like the woman.

He feels like a blank space that somebody took so much care to carve into, and to leave him with something special. It just so happens that this something has been, is, and maybe always will be Shane Hollander.

THE ROUTE(S) / THE ART

Chapter End Notes

trivia and fact-checking for this chapter 🎨

hey hey hey, this time, some yapping is in order!

so, it is *possible* that the metro was still going, but if it was, they really caught the last train. i will also admit that i made the vibe of the metro fit what the fic needed at that time.

here's a little something on the softener of evil hearts if you want to read up on it a bit!

the artpiece at the end is 'embellir' by alexandre farto aka vhils, a portuguese street artist. there are multiple pieces by him in paris. this one did not exist in 2014. it didn't exist until 2019, actually. but i mean, LOOK AT IT. wouldn't it be a shame not to include it? ♥

i can't believe there are so few hours left. it's honest to god starting to stress *me* out and i'm just writing it down ahhhh! and they still have so many things to do and emotions to feel! i'm gonna cry! 😭

if you're enjoying this, please do leave a comment/kudo if you have the time and/or energy, i appreciate it so much. emoji comments included! ♥

i'm on threads or on tumblr! i'd love to see you there. ♥

Chapter 9: 2AM

Chapter Notes

thank you to Irina (@irinarya on threads) for helping with some russian (can be found in notes at the end)! ♥

hi. i know i say this every time, but i really am so happy that you're here. ♥

(for a full experience, i recommend clicking the link that's included about halfway :))

By the time they make it back to Barbès-Rochechouart, Shane's clothes are blissfully dry. Here and there, he can still feel the phantom of something damp and cold pressed against his skin, and that makes him fidgety—but it also keeps him alert. He wonders whether he could recall the sensation at any moment to keep the tiredness at bay. It wouldn't be so different from imagining cotton balls running over his nails; it's another sensory thing he cannot stand but can remember the feel of on command. It's been able to make him shiver even in the grossest heatwaves, so… maybe.

Otherwise, he's going to have a problem. He already has a problem.

He's so, so tired. He can't remember the last time he properly slept. He's historically terrible at sleeping on planes, so he watched John Wick instead (the third and then the fourth one, to stay on theme). Dozed for a couple of hours, in and out. Dreamed of taking a nap at the hotel—obviously didn't happen. Plus jet lag. Plus where is a bed and a pillow when you need them.

And it's so pleasant outside right now. Paris really needed to cover itself in a duvet of cold stormy rain to cool down. In a dry hoodie and long pants, though, Shane can just about imagine lying down on the sidewalk and nodding off.

He sighs. There are effectively no more people going in and out of the Metro; just a few standing around to smoke and talk. Rubbing his face, Shane looks around and tries to take in his surroundings. He sees the buildings around them as if through a filter.

The boulevard, too, stretches on and on in both directions. He struggles to find any one reason to go either way and comes up empty.

At least his eyes are coming back into focus, which means that his ears are starting to catch up, too. Ilya's been talking to him, hasn't he?

"Sorry," Shane mumbles, cutting through Ilya's voice. "Say again?"

"I knew it," Ilya says, snapping his fingers.

"Uh, knew what exactly?"

"That you were not listening. Called myself the best hockey player, and you didn't blink."

Shane snorts. The banter gets his blood pumping just a little bit again. "Bullshit, that's not what you were saying at all, Rozanov. I would've heard that."

"What, do you have little invisible antennae on your head? They, hm, buzz every time somebody says Shane Hollander is not the best hockey player?"

Buzz is not the right word, and the way Ilya says antennae is heavily accented, too. Shane finds it to be the most endearing thing he's ever heard.

"Yeah, totally," he nods. "You don't?"

"No, I have other things that go all buzzy when somebody mentions Shane Hollander."

Shane can feel his cheeks warm against the cool night air. One thing he's never had—not just with Ilya, but with anybody—is easy flirting. The kind of banter that's jabby in all the right places and makes you all flustered and bashful. He doesn't know how to reply because saying oh yeah, what things? seems a bit too crude, but it's the only thing on his mind. Maybe, were they still at O'Neil, he'd respond by sliding his own hand up Ilya's thigh and trying to see if things were in reach, and if they were buzzy with want. But they're not.

"How are you so fucking awake, anyway?" he prods.

"Is not that late, Hollander."

"I'm not usually up at two in the morning," Shane admits a little sheepishly. "Unless it's, like, New Year's or something." Or you and me, somewhere, keeping me awake and wired. Here, sure, or sitting on cold stairs with your coat in my lap, trying not to hug it too hard.

"Ah, I forget. You are no party animal."

"And you are?"

"Mm, of course, yes." Ilya shrugs. Shane doesn't miss the side glance he sneaks as if trying to read Shane's reaction and understand which buttons have been pressed, or how hard. "I stay up allll the time."

"Doing what?" Shane finally asks.

"Or who?" Ilya, shadowed by the twinkling stars that have made their way back from behind the thick clouds, jazz hands.

Shane can do nothing but roll his eyes. He feels a wave of jealousy approach him, but it barely comes up to his toes. He's got four hours left to forget about whatever Ilya gets up to out in the world; four hours left to decide whether it bothers him or not. He knows well enough that they've never been exclusive, and he's not so sheltered that he'd expect Ilya to never hook up with anybody else. He's a grown man. So is Shane. Things… happen.

Right? Right.

"No, I'm kidding," Ilya continues, easily picking up his trail of thought. "The guys like to party."

"And who are you to refuse them?"

"Me, I can never refuse."

Shane lets out a strained hah. Ilya's words sting just a bit. Despite everything, he feels like Ilya refused him plenty in the past; can't express it now, though, can he, having said that there is no need to apologize. Count on him to take it personally anyway—to feel himself be transported to Sochi yet again, and to feel the emptiness of unanswered texts all anew.

Biting his lip, Shane starts up the boulevard. "I don't think that's true," he hears himself say in a burst of bravery.

Ilya follows, of course. His hands are in the pouch pocket, resting (in peace) with his dead pastries. "No?"

"You've said no to me," Shane clarifies. "Definitely more than once."

"You are different," Ilya answers after a moment of thought.

"How? Because you know I'll crawl back anyway?"

"No, no. Let me think." Voice lower, more serious.

"Okay, Ilya," Shane relents. He can't help the small smile that nests on his face. It reminds him of middle school and the feeling he had every time he answered a question right in a class he liked, not just powered through. A certain satisfaction for having called the right kind of attention to himself; not too much and not too little, measured only by what he thought he deserved.

"I know I said no to you," Ilya acknowledges after a minute or so. "I also said no to myself. Do you want me to apologize?"

Like it's something so easily given. Like hearing an apology isn’t something that was on Shane's mind for months, open-wounded in its urgency. The nights he spent tossing and turning and wishing and hoping twist around in his mind because he can no longer find space for them.

"No," Shane says truthfully, "but thanks for offering."

Ilya relaxes as two cars whiz past them as if in a chase. His voice sounds lighter again when he speaks. "What would Shane Hollander like from me, then?"

Playfully, Shane nudges Ilya in the shoulder. "Shane Hollander would like you to keep him awake. Super, super awake."

Ilya presses in, negating the nudge and turning it into contact. "I can do that. I think. How about treasure hunt? Would keep you awake enough?"

"Yeah, maybe," Shane says, biting back excitement. "What are you thinking?"

Walking along, Ilya's eyes scan the street. They visibly snag on something, but he continues turning his face from left to right as if looking for inspiration. "Find a street sign that is not on a building," he says in the end.

It's kind of pathetic, the way Shane's brain immediately stirs at being given a task. He knows there must be one somewhere visible if Ilya's face is anything to go by. He tries to find the spot that had Ilya's gaze linger, but a large bus obstructs his view. And then— There it is. Shane's hand flies out to point.

"No," Ilya says, shaking his head. "We have to go there. Pointing at things keeps nobody awake, Hollander."

"That was not in the rules—!"

"And you have to do it in ten, nine… eight, Shane, seven…"

Shane starts walking like somebody's poked him in the ass with a needle. Maybe it's not as exhilarating as racing up and down some street, but he'll sooner die than lose this activity that barely has the shape of a game. When he hears four, three… behind him, he starts jogging. The closed bars and restaurants on his right pass in a blur, their metallic shutters covered in graffiti smudging into a splash of muted color.

"There!" he exclaims triumphantly. Just under the traffic lights, a blue plaque reads Boulevard Marguerite de Rochechouart. The traffic light jumps from green to orange and they make the sign dance with it like it's a Christmas tree.

"Good for you," Ilya says through a breathless laugh. "Now what?"

Now Shane doesn't want it to end. "How about… Find a place that's still open and sells food."

Ilya's eyes widen, eyebrows rising. "That is not fair. This is what I get for being nice to you?"

"Yeah," Shane shrugs. "So, ten, Ilya. Nine…"

Shane goes deliberately slow with his countdown. It's not a fair task, or maybe even a realistic one, but he's thinking about Ilya's pastries again, and about the idea of a morning they might not have. Will not have. If they could run across a place that's still running, they could have pretend-breakfast. Or simply sit down, and Shane could say: Let's pretend we're two old friends catching up after fifty years apart (because he could never say married couple, could never say fiftieth anniversary). That is, if Ilya succeeds.

"…eight, seven…"

But it doesn't seem like Ilya's listening. He's rushing up the street in a similar manner to Shane, head snapping left to right.

All the places around them seem to have closed. Was this a stupid idea? Does everything close overnight in Paris? Although Shane doesn't frequent them, he knows of places that stay open very late or all night in Montréal. During Jacki's pregnancy, Hayden would not shut up about the poutine they make at Paulo & Suzanne—a midnight craving discovery—and he's heard more than one tale about various patisseries, or diners, or delis… But here might be different. He might have miscounted.

"Six, five… six," he says and Ilya's none the wiser, too determined not to fail. Shane counts slower still. The pit in his stomach is threatening to open up and let everything sink through.

"Aha!" Ilya calls out.

A beastly something flutters alive in Shane's chest again. He follows Ilya's eyes—this is something he excels at, anyway—and finally picks out a golden glow between a row of dim buildings.

"Five," he counts down, louder now as his excitement builds. "Four, three—"

Shane trails behind Ilya. If anybody asked him, he wouldn't be able to tell them how or why or if it was a conscious decision at all to be so on his heels. Ilya is a magnet, and the world would like to see Shane as his twin. By that logic, they should repel each other. Instead, Shane finds himself to be his opposite, and to be pulled by him and into him at every turn. Now, sure, as Ilya runs to the food stand with a giant lit-up strawberry up top, but anywere and anywhen else, too.

"I win!" Ilya yawps, rain-relaxed curls falling around his face to frame his shit-eating grin.

Shane almost, almost tells him that it's only because he said six, like, ten times, but fondness overtakes him.

That, and he doesn't want to be called a cheater.

"Yeah, so we're even," he says instead, mirroring Ilya's smile. "Are you gonna buy me something?"

There's not much on offer. The main ingredients are, shocking to nobody, strawberries. Get them covered in chocolate, or hidden underneath a layer of powdered sugar, or plain, or with syrup—regardless, strawberries.

"Au chocolat," is all Shane says when they settle on it. He feels a shiver run down his spine, a feeling like feathers slowly falling against his vertebrae; Ilya's eyes are on him, watching every syllable.

Second to second, Shane feels more and more comforted by his own rapid heartbeat. It's a frilly thing on a good day, his heartbeat, and always going faster than it should. Doesn't matter whether he's working out or playing hockey or practicing meditation, it's always rushing ahead of him. It never fails to feel like it's actively speeding up.

Just, the thing is, he doesn't mind. He can feel it pumping at a record pace now, too, but he knows it's because of Ilya. Because of the pin on his joodie, because of the strawberries in melted chocolate he's about to eat in the middle of the night in Paris, because Ilya doesn't know how much Shane would never do that otherwise but he will, here, with him. All of it gathers into a cumulonimbus and then, instead of thundering, poofs as if somebody popped it like a balloon. Into fresh air, into calm.

The strawberries are served to them by a bleary-eyed guy with pimpled cheeks. There are about a dozen of them on a paper plate, poured over with sweet milky goodness. They get two toothpicks for forks.

Shane carries it like treasure as they cross the street and enter a small park area a bit further down. A neat row of benches welcomes them, but despite the hour, only a couple of them are vacant. They sit down and start eating the strawberries in silence, save for the semi-obscene noise that crawls out of Shane's throat at the first taste.

It makes Ilya snicker. "That good, huh?"

"Fuck off," Shane snipes back, bristling a little bit while wiping at his mouth.

"They don't feed you in Canada?" Ilya continues. "Maybe the reason you have such a weak backhand?"

If Shane minded messy food a little bit less, he'd dip his fingers into the chocolate, grab one strawberry and aim it directly at Ilya's nose. "I don't have a weak backhand!"

"It's weak compared to mine," Ilya replies lazily, shrugging his shoulders. He looks utterly delighted at the exchange and it makes Shane want to bite him.

"Yeah, well, I'm faster," he chirps.

"Mm, yes, practically a speedskater," Ilya says mockingly.

"Wow. You're terrible." Through a fond smile. "I don't know why I like you."

Ilya looks up as if searching for an answer somewhere up above; he even bites his lip in concentration. "I'm funny and handsome and really good in your favorite sport and also amazing in bed…" He trails off, letting Shane finish the visual for himself.

"Yeah," Shane whispers while dusky pink stains his cheeks all over again. "I guess."

"But why I like you, Hollander…" Ilya shakes his head theatrically. His eyes are playful, his body relaxed.

"Because I'm the same," Shane supplies.

Ilya looks him up and down as if seeing him for the first time. It makes Shane feel naked to be looked at like this, but it's miles away from uncomfortable. He doesn't so much mind being constantly followed with a camera when he's playing hockey, or even when he's in public and people look at him a second too long in recognition—but then he doesn't mind it because he's used to it. When Ilya grants him this focused up-and-down-and-across-his-face inspection, it's not familiar at all. Instead of freaking him out, though, it makes him feel new, like he's a possibility that's just been cracked open and is spilling out all over the place, recentering gravity towards those eyes and that body so close to his.

It feels good.

Ilya smiles, slow and small and seemingly endeared, and that feels even better.

After the strawberries are all done, Shane's tummy feels full like it hasn't in ages. Ilya has chocolate in the corner of his mouth that he wipes away absentmindedly, unaware that Shane licks his lips while he does it as if mimicking the movement of his thumb.

Shane feels full but not sated at the sight.

"Are you ready?" Ilya asks, his voice going over the idle chatter and crickets with ease.

Shane smirks dumbly. "For what?" he snorts.

"Find music," Ilya instructs. Then, without further ado: "Ten. Nine."

Panic pierces Shane's ears like it's an actual sound, and not just an imaginary alarm blaring inside his head. Their score, as it stands, is one-one. It needs to become two-one in his favor.

A few people frown in his general direction when he jumps up from the bench. Confusion spills across their faces, but Shane doesn't linger long enough to care. He knows he'll feel secondhand embarrassment over his own behavior later, but right now, the only thing that matters is listening intently and locating the sound of music.

The street doesn't wind so much as run up, and Shane nearly starts running with it. All he can hear is seven, six somewhere close behind him.

"Shut up!" he calls back. "I can't hear music if you're doing the stupid countdown!"

A sprinkle of laughter sounds behind him, falling between his shoulder blades. "Siiiix," Ilya intones.

But Shane hears it. It's faint and unintrusive. Soft guitar creeps in from the right. He barely checks if there's any oncoming traffic before he crosses the street, following the melody like a dog.

Shane doesn't know the song. The guitar's still there, joined by an equally soft-sounding voice. Indistinguishable lyrics echo toward him before they're cut off by a Bob Dylan-esque harmonica.

"Three, two…" Ilya huffs behind Shane.

Useless. Downright pointless. Here it is. Shane's eyes scan the street name—Rue Coustou—and then they fly up. There are seven windows neatly lined up, one on top of the other. The fourth-floor one is wide open, illuminated by a warm golden glow; maybe a small nightstand lamp or a weak lightbulb about to start flickering. The music wafts down from it, clear now, almost like water trickling down a forest stream. Standing so close to it, Shane doesn't have to announce it. Even the lyrics are discernible here.

No lonely hands grab my suitcase full of nothing
I don't know why
I don't know why
You took me in, gave me something to believe in
That big old smile is all you wore

Girl, you make me want to feel
Things I've never felt before
Girl, you make me want to feel
Did I say I'm just a boy?
Did I say I'm just a boy?
You can hold me to that

The voice retreats, giving way to the harmonica again. Shane, although he doesn't know why, feels his chest swell with feeling. He doesn't even like music that much, but hearing it as if from the room next door fills him up to the brim.

He turns around, only to be met with Ilya's eyes already intently taking him in.

Ilya reaches out, palm up, inviting. He doesn't have to say anything for Shane to hear his voice as it says, want to dance, Hollander…? Stuck, always, between factual and questioning.

Over the years, Shane always said yes. He knows the ad was the first time this hand reached out to him, and that the hotel room numbers muttered out of the corner of his mouth were the same. And sure, Shane doesn't dance. He definitely doesn't dance in the middle of the night, out in the world. But he's also not a fucking quitter.

He takes Ilya's hand.

Their first movements are awkward as the harmonica tries to lead them. Shane's hips just don't want to move that way; meanwhile, Ilya is twisting his, kicking out his feet like a schoolboy, knees bending. Shane's attempts to copy him are half-hearted, anyway. Too busy looking and laughing when Ilya shimmies right in his face. It feels stupid and carefree and the opposite of what they do on the ice. Yet through all the half-jumps and bodies moving, their hands stay clasped together.

And then, as the lyrics start up again—you make me want to feel things I've never felt before—Ilya tugs at him and makes Shane twirl. Shane stumbles, but Ilya makes him do it a second time and then a third, the music slowing down all the while.

Until it comes to nearly a standstill and Shane, breathless, finds himself pressed against Ilya's chest in a half-embrace. The song is merely a murmur now, the last words evaporating. For a second, there is nothing but Shane's breath mixing with Ilya's—then the occupant of the fourth-floor apartment rewinds and starts the song from the beginning. The guitar purrs anew.

Palms, arms, chest. Everything inside and outside of Shane is suddenly awake and alive, excited. This is what the Big Bang must have been like: millions of little particles all hiding in the head of a pin, about to combust. They should ask Scott Hunter. Anyway, all Shane can think is I want, I want, I want, and if he doesn't get what he wants, he'll erupt.

I met you once and I'd fallen for your notions, the song goes.

Shane presses his palms against Ilya's chest. "Find a place to kiss me."

Ilya's pupils are blown wide open. Lips parted, he idly licks at them. "Okay," he says in his usual manner.

It's like he would have suggested it himself if Shane hadn't—like he's got that same animal growling inside his chest that suddenly needs to be fed.

All the streets of Paris put together aren't as long and winding as this one. That's what crosses Shane's mind as they rush up Rue Coustou. It doesn't even occur to him at first that they're still holding hands. By the time it finally hits him like a firetruck, they're already far enough from the apartment building that the song is nothing more than a memory.

Rue Coustou, Rue Coustou, Shane keeps repeating to himself. So he doesn't forget it, of course, but it also keeps the fire inside him alive. Strangely, he feels his heartbeat echo around his stomach more than his chest; feels it sneaking lower and lower.

Not once does the thought materialize that they shouldn't be touching. That they're still in public and could be seen or recognized. If anything, Shane only squeezes his fingers around Ilya's harder. Because maybe it wouldn't be so bad—if somebody saw them like this. If there was somebody hiding behind a thick curtain, strategically open to a slit, waiting to take a picture.

At least there would be a picture. Of them; of this.

There is no countdown, either. The only thing that's akin to it is their steps going up the uneven, narrow sidewalk. What would be the point, anyway? It's no longer a game.

Shane needs to be kissed or he's going to die. That's about that.

They veer rightward together, and Shane fails to notice the street name. He stumbles and trips when he notices somebody closing the door of another red-awninged café, keys jingling. He recognizes it from a movie, but he's so zeroed in on Ilya that he can't place it in the moment.

"Stupid archways are nowhere in this city," Ilya grumbles under his breath.

"Nobody said anything about archways," Shane tells him.

He's trying to be patient, but it's starting to feel a lot like when he's on the ice and desperately chasing the puck across the zones. Maybe his team is losing; maybe he's playing for the Cup. It's difficult to tell, but the feeling blooms anyway. You can catch the puck if you try hard enough—most of the time. Would catching it be equal to letting himself be pressed against the white facade of the nearest building?

"I am working on it," Ilya says. The weight of impatience in his voice is a comfort. "I can kiss you there?"

The sentence jumps in pitch into a question again. Ilya is pointing at a row of grey metallic panels up ahead where the street curves to the right. They're definitely not tall enough, Shane can tell as much even from this distance, but he doesn't want his desire to ebb. If it's this or nothing, he's fucking opting for this. There's nobody around here, anyway.

"Yeah, looks good," he confirms, surprised to hear that his voice still sounds breathless.

It would be embarrassing to run, and that's probably the only reason they don't. The second they cross behind the boards and the random posters plastered on them, though, the dam breaks. Every movement is hasty and rushed.

Their hands finally come apart. As if seeking comfort, they land in familiar places. Ilya's palm against Shane's jaw; Shane's hand clutching at Ilya's hip for dear life.

When their mouths clash, it's different from the other kisses. It makes the one by the Seine feel childlike, nothing but two teenagers agreeing to do it to get it over it, and the one in the archway feels like… foreplay to foreplay.

Shane's mouth is already open and ready, but Ilya leaves it unattended. Instead, he kisses every inch of skin he can reach; Shane's cheek, his jaw, down his neck.

"Fuck," Shane exhales. He can feel his knees begging to buckle, and his head is going down, too, hungry for a tongue against his own, desperate to spread himself wide for in-and-out in the only way that is possible here.

Surprisingly, it's Ilya who caves first. He retraces his steps, following the wet trail he's created back to where it started. His mouth finally clicks into Shane's and this is what they talk about when they say you will one day meet a person who feels like your missing piece. They don't mean some soulmate type of shit, no—they mean the feeling when somebody's face fits against yours. When bumping noses is just another spark, when saliva is glue, when one tongue curls around another and it feels so goddamn fucking perfect.

Shane moans, pushing his hips against Ilya's, but he doesn't even have the time to be ashamed of it. The sound gets completely drowned out by the noise Ilya makes at the same time, lower-pitched and needy.

Ilya's palm is still on his jaw until it isn't. Until it snakes up into Shane's hair; until it tugs and pulls.

Until Shane's hands slip under Ilya's hoodie and shirt and finally splay over inches of delicious, warm skin. He wants to put his mouth on it—needs to put his mouth on it. Needs to leave bruises that Ilya's teammates will gawk at tomorrow (today); needs to scratch and bite and claim.

Ilya fights his way further into Shane's space, hands down now, snaking around his waist and then cupping his ass. Even through the fabric of his pants, Shane can feel those fingers dig in. Involuntarily, he bends, arching backward. His shoulder hits the metal behind him and the panels clang.

"Fuck," he exhales again, though it's more of a hiss this time. Ilya's wet mouth isn't to be deterred—it skids down and across Shane's jawline. His soft stubble must be leaving little scrapes. Ilya nudges Shane's head to the side and then his lips close around a patch of skin on Shane's neck. He's fucking sucking on it, trying to leave his own mark. "Fuck, Ilya."

Ilya peels himself away and the spot he abused with his teeth is pounding. "I miss you," he murmurs urgently into the bruising skin. It's thousands of miles away from teasing Shane in the corridor of his Montreal apartment building in more ways than one.

Shane sighs, throwing his head back against the panel. "Miss you too," he agrees. "Been missing you so much, the whole time."

The number of times his mind has replayed what happened between them in that apartment just before Sochi is impossible to count. Even now, despite the urgency that keeps the air electric, Shane finds a pocketful of seconds to recall it. The memory has borne different colors over time: rosy and soft just after it happened, angry red during the Olympics, a stereotypical blue in the following months.

Now, as Ilya's hands from the memory join Ilya's hands here, it's all nothing but vibrant hues of orange and yellow; the sunset before a long night.

"Shane," Ilya is saying. One of his palms is back on his chin, pulling his head back. Shane's eyes snap open and land on Ilya's face. His cheeks are red, an excellent complement to his parted lips and curved brows. "C'mon, kiss me again."

Shane gulps. He doesn't know what possesses him, but before he knows it, he's pushing against Ilya's chest and they go stumbling across the sidewalk. One, two, three steps and Ilya's back hits the building with a thud. Shane isn't brave enough to pull Ilya's shirt up, but he shoves his hands underneath the hoodie at least; runs them up Ilya's sternum and only stops when he feels the muscles of Ilya's chest underneath. The tips of Shane's fingers threaten to roll up and over Ilya's nipples.

Ilya nnnhs. It's a brief sound, but it swims through Shane and then hooks itself on his tongue—pulls him forward, makes him lick his way into Ilya's warm and eager mouth.

He loses track of whose hands are where. It feels so good to be kissing Ilya this way again, like it's the only thing in the world truly worth doing. It makes Shane forget about breathing and about Paris and the street they're on; really, nothing else exists. It feels, kind of, like Shane wouldn't exist either if it weren't for Ilya's mouth against his.

It feels too good, maybe, Shane thinks idly when he feels a twitch of need in his pants. He's been Ilya-sober for so long that one kiss and he's almost fully hard, and his first thought isn't to pull away but to buck into it, to get more.

"What did you say?" Shane asks. His lips feel kiss-swollen and wet.

"Nothing, said nothing," Ilya mumbles. He looks about as drunk as Shane felt against that arch. Eyes half-lidded, mouth open and chasing more access.

"In the archway," Shane specifies. His tongue rolls over the R awkwardly. His tongue feels dry from the kissing. "What did you say, in Russian?"

Ilya breathes out and swallows. "I want to fuck you right here," he repeats obediently.

Shane hums. It's not enough, though; he wants to hear the same version that slipped out back there, unguarded and true. "Say it in Russian again. Please."

As if offering support, Shane wedges his knee between Ilya's thighs even better. It makes Ilya's inhale sharp, air dragged in through his nose. But he does as he's asked, maybe because Shane asked so prettily. Hearing it again tastes like honey. Shane can't recognize the words, but they're still enough to allow him to feel the sound of them. The fact that he's heard the phrase before helps; he melts into the soft valleys protected by a multitude of sharper vowels. He knows he could traverse them for hours.

"I want it too," Shane says. He kisses Ilya again; shivers when Ilya catches his bottom lip between his teeth and tugs. "Ah— I'm serious."

Ilya pulls away. Not by much—just so he can look Shane in the face, or maybe to showcase his own irregular breathing. "I can't fuck you on the street, Hollander."

"No, you can't," Shane rushes to say. "But I… I don't know." He looks down, eyes skirting over where their bodies meet, then traveling back up across Ilya's wide chest that heaves under labored breaths. "I want you, Rozanov. And I need to do something about it."

"Like what?" Ilya asks, wrinkling his nose.

"Like…" Shane slumps against Ilya. He doesn't know. The easiest option would be to get a cab and go back to the hotel, of course. It's unlikely that their bubble would burst just because of it, but it's a weird thought, anyway. Like it's unclean to do it, tainting. But what else can they do? "Fuck, I don't know."

"Maybe hotel," Ilya says slowly.

"But that's…" Shane trails off. Maybe he's just being silly. Maybe they've already said and done everything that needed to be said and done; maybe there's no harm in retreating and finding comfort in a warm bed. Or he's overthinking it again, like he always overthinks everything, and for no reason—

Ilya's hands land on Shane's shoulders and squeeze. "No, Shane, I mean… Sorry, you make me fuck up my English."

It makes Shane smirk. "Yeah?" he asks, eyes jumping over Ilya's face but ultimately steadfast in locking with his.

"I mean we find a hotel," Ilya explains. "Paris is huge. We passed so many hotels already. Must be something close to here, no? I want the rest, I really do. But maybe for an hour, yes? Just to…"

"Just to fuck?"

Ilya rolls his eyes. "If I call it making love, will you say yes?"

"Ew, no. That's gross." Shane moves, standing a little straighter. His hands come to rest over Ilya's, palm over palm, warm and pleasant. Even the small skin-to-skin contact makes his belly do a somersault and tickle. "But yeah, I'm sure there's something close by. It's Paris. There has to be something, right?"

"I think so, yes."

"What I'm saying is that I want to do it," Shane reiterates. He emphasizes his words by squeezing Ilya's fingers, still gripping his shoulders tightly. "Let's finish the game and find a hotel together, yeah?"

Ilya purses his lips at first, but hiding his satisfied smile is pointless. He licks them instead, then, like he's scooping Shane and drawing him into his mouth, and grins. "We both win, then."

Shane simply nods. "Yeah. We both win."

There is no third party, of course, to do a countdown for them. They don't need it, though—their own steps up the cobblestoned street tick away second after second. For once, time seems to be pushing them toward something great (a hotel with a bed) and not something terrible (the sun rising).

THE ROUTE / THE KISS

Chapter End Notes

trivia and fact-checking for this chapter 🍓

we have quite a few things to talk about today - pls know i appreciate you so much if you read these 😂

1. the strawberry place is completely made up, but i kind of imagine it looking like these traditional chimney cake stalls in prague, just with a huge strawberry up top!

2. if you didn't click the song open, let me just link it again because i want to talk about how funny life is. i randomly found this on a spotify playlist that somebody compiled to remember their own 2014. if the sound seems familiar to you (like it did to me) and you're a gamer, omg, they did the soundtrack for life is strange!! i used to be obsessed with that game and i never would have expected to stumble upon the artist. rocked my entire night!!

3. they're kissing on rue lepic for no reason other than i also used to be obsessed with vincent van gogh and that's where he lived with his brother theo when he lived in paris.

4. there are so many things i can't reasonably include in the fic, but i see so much cool stuff during my hours-long google maps strolls, like this piece of street art.

5. if you're wondering what ilya said in russian, it's "Я хочу взять тебя прямо здесь" - "Ya hochu vzjat' tebya prjamo zdes" - which means "I want to take you right here" if we want to be literal. :))

and finally 6. the cafe they pass that seems familiar to shane is Café des Deux Moulins from Amélie!

i would like to kindly ask you to be patient with me re: chapter 10. i'll do my best to get it to you next week, but i'm leaving for london on thursday for five days and it just may not be possible (depending on how long it ends up being).

if you're enjoying this, please do leave a comment/kudo if you have the time and/or energy, i appreciate it so much. emoji comments included! ♥

i'm on threads or on tumblr! i'd love to see you there. ♥

Chapter 10: 3AM

Chapter Notes

hii, i'm so happy you're here! ♥ thank you so much for waiting so long for this one.

this here baby contains very explicit stuff. just in case, if you don't care for smut, you're safe until, "Shane's hands are restless..." and if you don't care for anything sexual at all, you're safe until, "Ilya palms Shane's shins..." :)

The street curves like a belly pregnant with desire. The air grows heavy with it, and Ilya never stops holding Shane's hand as they thread through it and follow where the sidewalk takes them.

Despite the stereotypical buildings and their blue-grey roofs, it doesn't feel like Paris anymore. Momentarily, Ilya can only describe their surroundings as a pocket of limbo or a level in an arcade game that they need to get through. Instead of stealing a precious orb or rescuing a princess, their only way through is finding a decent-enough hotel with an available room.

Sounds easy. Sure. Ilya doesn't know his way around Paris, but it's the city of love, isn't it? It shouldn't be that hard to find a place. Should it?

But the area around them seems more suburban than anything. Lots of closed shops and patisseries; very few people milling about.

Worse still, Ilya is afraid to speak. Whether it'd be for the sake of idle chit-chat or to joke about the situation, he doesn't want to risk it. Keeps his lips pressed into a thin line instead. His want is a live thing still rumbling around his stomach, and he hopes it's the same for Shane, but what if speaking snapped something or jiggled it loose?

And the street keeps curving and curving.

Ilya's palm is getting sweaty. He looks up at the darkened windows and the black bars of the balconies that line them. He wishes he owned one of those and maybe stood outside with a cigarette lazily rolled between his fingers, not a worry in the world besides pressing the brown filter to his mouth and then retreating back inside and shoving his tongue between Shane's lips and being met with a moan instead of a complaint—

Ilya sighs. Beyond the bend, there are more buildings, more trees, more nothing. And he's getting tired again—overwarm from all the fast walking, eyes burning.

"Hang on," Shane mumbles all of a sudden. He brings up their joined hands and points across the street. "What's that over there?"

"I don't know," Ilya says. He hears the frustration in his own voice and hates it.

Regardless, Shane tugs and Ilya can do nothing but skip over the cobblestones. The street is quiet; the loud thuds of their shoes echo around, and a ginger cat sprints out from underneath a bush.

"Fuck!" Ilya curses sharply, drawing a chuckle out of Shane and a hiss out of the cat.

"Look," Shane urges, bringing Ilya's attention back to where the cat jumped out of.

The bush is half-hidden behind an iron gate—which is, by itself, not very interesting. It only becomes interesting when Ilya notices the golden plaque on the side, shiny and visibly well cared for even in this light. HOTEL LA NOUVELLE LUNE Montmartre, it says in a simple but elegant font. But there's no big building when Ilya looks through the metal bars; just a steep set of stairs leading into greenery. He doesn't need to have it spelled out for him to understand that this place wants to offer privacy.

He looks to Shane; Shane whose eyes are already expectant and wide, Shane whose face is bright with discovery. He looks like Shane Hollander, the hockey player, because—well, this is exactly the look he throws Ilya when he scores against Boston. Triumphant and stupid about it, drunk on a small victory.

"Yes?" Shane asks, voice already bearing the trace of a smile.

Ilya smirks. "Yes."

He braces for the gate to creak and for the sound to assault them. Everything sounds louder at night: an empty street becomes the tiled kitchen floor upon which you can drop your smallest spoon and it will sound like a detonation. It opens quietly, though; the handle barely clicks and they're through.

Ilya's legs scream in protest, but he makes them go up step by narrow step. The anticipation makes him nervous. Their hands disconnect and Ilya lets his hang by his sides.

"This is insane," Shane says when the hotel comes into view. It's a few stories tall, but the trees that hug it are taller. Windows flicker through branches; a garden expands around the walls.

Still, Ilya isn’t sure whether Shane means the building or the simple reality they have to face, also known as walk in, talk to a real-life person about paying for a room, pray they don't recognize you—or say nothing if they do.

"Yes, totally crazy," Ilya agrees. He thinks of the word bonkers, which he's only ever heard on sitcoms he used to watch to get a grasp on the language, and it makes him giggle.

Not for the first time, he feels like a little boy—out past his curfew, out of his element. The feeling only intensifies when they both hesitate under a few more elegant stairs that lead (presumably) into the lobby. It's almost like they're waiting for their adult supervision, or for somebody to tell them it's okay and push their shoulders to make them go forward. Ilya stumbles, even, like somebody really shoved him, when he takes the first reluctant step.

The second one is easier—Shane is right next to him, doing the same.

"I can't fucking believe we're really doing this," Shane says with wonder.

The hotel is so small they might not have any vacancies. So small their reception might not be open overnight.

But this is Paris. This is theirs. It has to work.

The door is white-painted wood and does creak a little bit. Behind it is a small, quaint-looking room. Ilya doesn't know shit about interior design or architectural styles, but even he can tell it's trying to evoke old time-y vibes, pomp, wealthy but quiet about it. The floors are marble and the ceiling's arched and white, with a chandelier in the middle, and it all makes the lobby shimmer.

"Bonsoir!"

They both turn to the side at the voice. Shane's shoe squeaks and Ilya winces. There is overnight reception, manned by a white-haired guy with a tightly trimmed beard and an aggressive tan. Ilya's father used to look like that during the few summers he spent fishing because it was all the rage among various government officials. He winces again.

The man asks something in smooth French. His voice is kind, if amused. Chances are that this is not his first shift that's gotten intercepted by a random couple in the middle of the night.

Ilya nudges Shane in the shoulder. They can't possibly keep standing here silently, side by side.

"Absolutely not," Shane says out of the corner of his mouth. He shoves his hands in his pockets.

"Hollander," Ilya presses.

"Nope."

"You speak the language! You told me you are not a chicken!"

Shane shakes his head, shoulders up to his ears. "Stop mentioning things that happened years ago. I'm a chicken, I live in a chicken coop, I don't care, I'm not doing it."

Ilya rolls his eyes at the same time as the receptionist clears his throat.

"Can I help you with anything, gentlemen?" he asks. His English is less accented than Ilya's—but then again, Ilya doesn't try enough, would rather be underestimated than overestimated, and he especially doesn't try around Shane, never has. "I'm afraid our bathrooms are for guests only, if that's what you're looking for." At this hour goes unsaid but implied.

"Well—" Ilya tries, prepared to make a joke that he's willing to pay for a room if it means he can take a piss, but Shane is suddenly alive.

"Um, no, thank you, Sir," he says. His polite, perfect Canadian boy shines through. "We were actually wondering…"

But poor Shane Hollander loses his steam. It makes Ilya smile. It's not even that the situation is ridiculous (like, they're literally standing here, Ilya's still half-hard—that's how good the kiss was—and they can't squeeze out the right words at all). It's moreso that he finds Shane's behavior so endearing, to an alarming degree, and it doesn't dull his want at all. It's a deadly combo that he doesn't know what to do with.

He bounces on his heels. "If you have rooms available?"

"Just one room is fine," Shane amends.

"Preferred," Ilya adds.

"I understand," the receptionist says, clearly biting down on a smile and trying to squash it like a bug. He motions for them to come closer. His nametag finally comes into view: Jérôme. Just like the bartender at their hotel.

They exchange a quick glance. Water in Paris, Hollander? Ilya hears himself say. Plenty of sights to see, Shane's voice echoes.

And so here they are.

"Let me look," Jérôme says under his breath. He switches to French, robbing Ilya of any chance to follow.

So he takes that moment to allow himself hope. It's hard to tell whether it goes beyond the dreaded six in the morning—it pins itself on this hotel, really, and a room somewhere within it. He wonders if this hope's roots twine through time, all the way back to the gym of their first-ever shared hotel. The only thing he carefully skirts around is the tenderness that coils in his chest when he thinks that yes, maybe they do. Tenderness as a whole is something Ilya avoids—shuns, even, if he catches himself falling for the feeling—it's just that it's getting more and more difficult.

He can't fully turn it off even when Shane starts speaking French. It's simply something that's nestled within the confines of his ribcage. Like a flower to sunlight, it stretches its stem and turns towards the unfamiliar words; drinks them like water.

It could be a form of parasite, this gentle but growing feeling, but Ilya's too tired to figure out how to get it out.

Shane says something that sounds like par-fay. Ilya almost overhears it as paraffin, but the way you'd say it in Russian, pah-rah-fyin. All soft and melty like the chocolate over their strawberries. Insert a cringy metaphor about being a candle Shane can light or blow out anytime he pleases here.

"There's a room," Shane finally translates.

"I can see that," Ilya says just to himself as IDs pass over the counter, a flimsy sheet of paper gets signed, and a key card is handed over. Jérôme is still smirking.

Shane grabs it with hasty fingers and turns away from the receptionist. "Let's go," he grits out, and before Ilya turns away, Jérôme fucking winks at him.

"There is no need to run," Ilya protests as they practically jog to the elevator. Shane presses the button for up once, twice, three times. "Shane."

A small but hysterical sound screeches out of him. He looks to Ilya with eyes wide and cheeks beet-red, almost like he's been bruised.

The elevator finally dings open; Shane jumps in, and Ilya takes a slow but deliberate step. Fear that this was a bad idea stings his skin all over like a needle punching under a nail. He's not sure what to say—he feels himself trying to slip into the old familiar mindset of trying to figure out what's going on in the room so he can soothe it or at least prevent it from becoming worse. Shane's unreadable.

Ilya bites the bullet. "Did he say something?"

Shane leans against the full-body mirror across from the door. The elevator begins its ascent. "Nothing specific, but I'm pretty sure he knows."

"Knows what?"

"Why we're here in the first place," Shane says. "He told me we can find 'everything we need in the room'."

"Maybe he meant hand towels and extra pillows."

Shane snorts. "No, he didn't. He definitely meant condoms, Ilya. Condoms and lube."

Well, at least nobody's going to have to back down and ask for them, Ilya thinks but knows better than to say it out loud. That's an inside thought that needs to stay an inside thought.

"You think he recognized us?" Ilya asks. He's not worried about somebody clocking his semi-present erection, but escaping a hoard of reporters rests heavy on his mind. And it's the only thing he can think of that would explain Shane's erratic behavior.

"Not sure," Shane says. He finally sags against the mirror. "Maybe? He specifically told me they're very discreet and to ring him if we need anything else. He even reassured me that they usually don't have last minute vacancies but somebody had to cancel or whatever, to— to, like, make it feel more legit, I think."

"So he was nice about it?"

"Yeah. Fuck, yeah, he was really nice about it. I guess they have to be discreet, like, the nightly fare is kind of expensive, the whole place looks and smells good, so…"

Ilya shrugs. "I guess we're lucky."

"We've even got until noon to check out," Shane adds. The elevator dings again and the door rolls open. Before they step out, they look at each other and Ilya finds himself returning a small, sad smile.

Got until noon to check out, he thinks.

Noon is six hours removed from the end of this. They'll be long gone from here by then.

"There should be… Yeah, over here." Shane, knowledgeable because of his infuriating French, leads them to a smaller spiral staircase.

Some people would probably complain, but scoring the attic room that's not accessible feels like a dream to Ilya. The view when Shane uses the key card and opens the door only reinforces it.

The room is spacious—and it's unlike any of the hotel rooms they've been in together. From now until the end of his life, should whatever they have continue that long, Ilya is going to compare everything to this. It's high-ceilinged and dark-walled, and the lounge area seamlessly flows into the bedroom seamlessly flows into a window nook. To Ilya's shock, the centerpiece is not the bed but a free-standing bathtub on four spiky legs, luxurious and deep. Maybe not deep enough to hide two bulky hockey players at the same time, but Ilya would like to try.

He whistles.

Shane has already scurried to the nighstand and picked up the hotel's cheat sheet. Breakfast from this until that, Wi-fi password something, taxi upon request. The usual.

"Welcome to Hotel La Nouvelle Lune," he reads. "This private paradise is the perfect place to escape the rush of Paris and explore your deepest desires. The city of love offers this hidden gem to you and wishes you a pleasurable stay. What happens in the bedroom stays in the bedroom, outside of it, feel free to visit our resident chicken—"

"—oh my god—"

"—or stop at our restaurant for a glass of wine from our wide selection or a meal you will never forget."

"Unbelievable," Ilya comments. His dry tone encompasses nothing of what's going on inside him. What's the opposite of ennui?

Shane lets the little leaflet fall and float back onto the nightstand. He leans over it, though, discreetly rolling the drawer out and peeking in. "Yeah, I fucking told you. There's condoms and stuff in here. Handcuffs, even." He pulls them out in all their outrageously red and fuzzy glory, dangling them over his index finger.

Ilya is fucking delighted—mouth open, letting out laughter, the whole shebang. "You want me to use handcuffs, Hollander?"

Shane snickers and throws them back in the drawer, cringing as they clang against the wood. His wonder doesn't dissipate, but his grin softens when he looks back to Ilya. "I can't…" He trails off and clears his throat. "This is ridiculous, right? That out of every hotel in Paris, this is the one we ended up in?"

"You saw it," Ilya starts, circling the bathtub, fingers running over the cold metal of the tap, "and now you're a believer."

Shane laughs. It fills out the room. "Shrek again?"

"Believer in fate, Hollander."

"No," Shane replies, out of spite. He easily crosses the distance between them—easily enough to forget he's got kilometers stored in his feet. "I believe in the power of a hot bath, though."

Ilya raises his brow. "Really?"

Shane nods. "Mhm."

Ilya has never known Hollander to be seductive. Bewitching, magnetic—sure, but they've always felt accidental. It's only ever made Ilya want him more and deny him more, yes, but the fact remains that people would call him elusive and a myriad other words before they called him sensual.

Yet it is exactly that when he covers Ilya's fingers with his own and slowly turns the tap without breaking eye contact. Water comes gushing out, puddling at the bottom of the plugged tub, and Ilya gulps.

"I totally lied, by the way," Shane says softly. "I'm not a chicken."

Ilya snorts; has to stop himself from nodding. "Yes, I know that, Shane. You're very brave."

"Not as brave as you," Shane retorts, and he does the thing again, the thing Ilya has always adored: even though they're of equal height, Shane looks up at him. Through a dark curtain of eyelashes, he pins his gaze firmly on Ilya's face, and how does he do it? It's not that he makes himself appear smaller—Shane Hollander would never—and it's not that he's trying to flirt. It's a natural tilt to his chin, or maybe it's Ilya's imagination; a glimpse of a reality where he's bigger than the whole sky in this specific pair of eyes.

"Mmno, I'm not brave," Ilya says and means it.

"You are," Shane insists. The water starts pooling and its sound changes from ringing to burbling. "I could have killed you at that bar, you know, for what you did. But you walked up to me anyway."

I don't think I've ever stood a chance against you, Ilya wants to say. I don't think not walking up to you was ever really an option.

"True," he says instead. He smirks; he can feel his body relaxing into the tension they're slowly building one word at a time. "I told you I like being bad."

Shane's fingers press down into Ilya's. "That's not what this is," he mumbles. "And besides, I wouldn't have. Killed you, I mean."

"You have good boy reputation to think about," Ilya teases.

"No. Not because of that." Shane lifts his fingers and hooks them in Ilya's hoodie pouch. He considers for a second, and whatever he's thinking about slowly stretches his mouth into a smile. It's a lopsided thing, given almost unwillingly. "All I really wanted to do, anyway, was kiss you."

Ilya's heart itches like when an old scar gets irritated sometimes. At first, he wants to make light of the soft confession, or to point out how it's made Shane fidget, but he's spent enough time bending under the weight of his own bad habits. His fingers release the tap and climb the outline of Shane's body until they rest against his jawline. Slight, slight stubble digs into his palm and the side of his thumb, and Ilya wonders for the millionth time what it is about Shane's face that he keeps seeking it out. Why he always catches himself looking for it in a crowd; why he must always feel it with his hand when they're like this, mere inches apart.

Every time, it feels like an attempt at capturing something fleeting with the hope of succeeding. But you can't cage something so changeable—you might as well try to cage the moon. It's a waste of time. Because Shane is always different, and also the same, and Ilya can try to hold it, and he will, but it will never be a one-and-done type of thing. It's a lifelong type of thing.

Ilya breathes out when Shane leans into the touch. Opens his mouth to finally say something; closes it like a fish on dry land.

Shane's eyes flicker downward, landing on the curve of Ilya's lips.

Nobody pleads to be kissed this time. Nobody proclaims anything and nobody asks for permission.

The stream from the tap, water rushing and hitting the surface as the tub fills up, sounds almost violent compared to the way they meet each other. Their mouths don't clash. They greet each other like long-lost friends that were interrupted once upon a time in the middle of a delicious shared meal.

Ilya's tongue slips into Shane's mouth with ease and their bodies press together, line to line. Hands catch elbows, fingers grip muscle and dig into skin. Hips take the same path towards each other, noses bump.

Eventually, they come apart with their lips wet and puffy. To Ilya, it feels like coming back into his body after hanging just an inch outside of it, suspended.

He closes the tap and they undress without preamble; Shane's neat pile stacked next to Ilya's bundle of clothes. It's good, this knowledge that Shane hasn't really changed that much and that all his shirts must be creased in the same spots to this day. Maybe that's where this all roots, really. Tucked away in a pair of pants straightened out and folded in half, or the neckline of a shirt laid down in a perfect o. All of Ilya's uneven edges and scrunched-up nature smooth over when he's with Hollander; it's more than Ilya's ever been able to rely on before.

Similarly, they get into the bath without discussing it.

Ilya's guess comes to life: it doesn't quite fit them, but it's just about big enough for both of them to sit at their respective sides.

Ilya's back is straight like he's sitting in the world's most uncomfortable chair. It has its advantage, though. He can easily submerge his arms and curl his fingers around Shane's calves, body hair soft and floating in the warm water like algae dancing around and touching his skin.

Shane does the same. They both smile and stare at each other, but the occasional clonk and bob of the water as it ripples is still the only sound.

Ilya palms Shane's shins and lets himself explore them along their length. Pleasant warmth envelops him from his abs down and he can feel his tired body starting to relax. He hums, low enough so he's the only one who hears it, and his eyes map a trek from Shane's face down to his chest.

Ilya feels good. So good. With his fingers roaming around Shane's skin and his eyes raking Shane's body—he winds down like a toy and melts into the tub. He's fully hard but not painfully so. He can feel his cock twitching here and there as it grows into itself, but it's just another item on the list of things that feel good.

Eventually, the water stills and Ilya shivers. The room is warm, but not warm enough compared to the bath.

"Come here," he says lazily, shuffling.

Shane blinks as if he's been dozing, but he listens immediately, moving towards the middle of the tub, legs starting to hug Ilya around the waist. His little smile is almost stupid. Through the water's distortion, Ilya sees that his dick is just as hard as his.

Ilya sucks his teeth. "No, not like that."

"How, Ilya?" Shane asks. His voice is thick with want. Whether it's his want to oblige or his want to move from the tub to the bed is hard to tell.

Ilya moves his body down and spreads his legs, knees peeking out. The temperature of the room hits them with little spikes of cold.

"Mm, here." Ilya looks down at the space between his thighs. It feels as though he's got a bed there and it's been body-less his entire life. Sheets and pillow cold, duvet half down to tempt somebody to rest here. But no one has. This entire time, no one has. Maybe Ilya hasn't even let anybody consider it up until now, but with Shane, it's the only thing he wants.

It's the only thing he needs. For somebody—for Shane—to lie down and stay.

Ilya's breaths quicken when Shane grips the edges of the bathtub and crouches to turn around. The view of his ass is splendid when he does so. It draws Ilya's tongue out and makes him run it across the sharp edges of his canines.

Slowly and carefully, Shane aims his body down, then settles. He keeps shuffling and repositioning himself until his lower back hits Ilya's cock, and then he finally relaxes.

Shane's skin is cold against Ilya's chest at first. It warms almost instantly when Ilya slides his arms underneath Shane's and touches his torso.

"Does it feel good?" Ilya asks quietly, right into Shane's ear, inquisitive. As he runs his hands across Shane's pecs, he feels the old familiar itch to squeeze. He almost has to force himself to revel in the feeling of hardened nipples against his palms instead.

"Yes," Shane breathes out. He squirms. His chest heaves like a rumbling hill that rises with every breath.

Ever so gently, Ilya presses his lips against Shane's ear. It's not quite a kiss, but paired with his hand disappearing under the surface and trailing down to Shane's abdomen, it feels strangely erotic anyway. Ilya is excited and turned on and cautious and eager at the same time.

Ilya's fingers stop just short of Shane's cock. "What about this?"

Instead of answering, Shane leans back. From this angle, Ilya can see the bobbing of Shane's Adam's apple when he swallows on empty.

And then Shane's hand joins Ilya's. Like they're caught in a strange game of poker. Who's bluffing? Who's going to fold? How to discern between the two? It's Shane who touches his own dick first, his fist lazy and loose around the middle, but the groan it elicits makes it feel like he's the winner.

Ilya takes Shane's wrist less than gently and moves his hand out of the way. "You have always been very impatient, Shane, do you know that?"

Shane makes a small noise of discomfort and rolls his head to the side, almost like he's nuzzling in. "I've waited long enough," he mumbles. "I don't want to be fucking patient anymore."

Ilya has to agree. Patience is the last thing on his list—not to be mistaken for teasing—and he doesn't want Shane to feel like this is just play.

When Ilya finally wraps his fingers around Shane, it feels like he's touching himself at the same time. He has to grit his teeth—suddenly, the weight of Shane's back against him is almost too much and his hips want to roll forward, hungry to burrow into something warm and tight even though they can't get it like this.

Shane inhales sharply. "Fuck, Rozanov," he says, his words and tone familiar to a comforting degree.

"Maybe it's time we get out of this, yes?" Ilya whispers.

"Yes. Fuck, yes, let's get out of this."

Their rush now is incomparable to the thoughtless way they undressed before. Ilya's wet feet skid on the floor more than once while he fetches towels for both of them, and he does a shit job of drying himself off, anyway. There are damp patches all over his body, places he never even touched with the soft fabric, but he doesn't see them—his eyes are too busy keeping track of Shane.

It feels all the better for it, though, when they deem themselves dry enough and they run to each other. Come here-no you come here. They squash the unsaid words between them.

Shane's hands are restless. Ilya feels them all over himself, especially as they run into the dampness and smear it around like sweat. Somehow, it intensifies the sensation by a thousand, and if it wasn't so overwhelming, Ilya would be able to tell huh, that's the tip of his index finger against my hip; there's his arm curling around me; his elbow just knocked against mine, his left palm is so close to my cock I can taste it.

They fall into bed and there's nothing neat about it. It's hungry and a little desperate, and it is impatient; they have waited long enough, but at least the guilt Ilya feels about it is fleeting.

The bed is wide and soft. Ilya's knees sink into it when he crawls up, only stopping once he can nestle between Shane's legs.

He takes Shane into his mouth and closes his lips around him. He knows he could be doing so much more. He could be running his tongue up Shane's impressive length; rolling it over his tip; licking down instead and sucking at the skin at his base; cupping his balls and wetting his cock with nothing but his lips… Ilya could be doing all that. But he's so fucking hungry for Shane Hollander that he takes him in full, all at once, and he's salivating.

There's a push against his shoulders soon, and then strong legs tightening around his upper body. "Stop, fuck, stop," Shane's ranting.

Lips parted and surely glistening, Ilya looks up. "What, Hollander?"

Shane shakes his head. His cheeks are a flushed shade of pink. "I don't wanna come. Not like that, Rozanov," he echoes Ilya's words back to him.

Ilya licks his lips and pulls himself up to Shane's face. Seconds later, Shane's tongue easily slips into Ilya's mouth, as if trying to eat himself out of there. Every scrap must go. Whereas the room felt a little bit cold when they were in the bathtub, it feels hot now, sticking to Ilya's skin everywhere.

"How then?"

"If you want to…?" Shane says, unable to finish the sentence. Ilya understands, maybe for the first time, that it's not shame locking it up, or needless bashfulness. He's unwilling to say the words, maybe, yes, but it's not because they're bad. Ilya thinks that it's because they're big.

"I want to what?" he asks, determined to hear it.

Shane swallows. His fingers are nervously dancing on Ilya's shoulders. "I wanna come with your cock inside me," Shane says, fast but steady. Brave boy.

Ilya smirks, ignoring the way it's made his stomach flip. "Hollander," he says mockingly, "so filthy."

"I learned from the best," Shane replies, chin jutting out defiantly.

Tsk-tsk. "Such sweet talker. Is this your trick?" And even saying the words, Ilya recalls the one and only time they've done this, back In Montreal, Shane spurting all over his bedsheets and Ilya gripping his hips to keep him in place, not so much to help him not fall apart, really to secure that he could still fuck into him and feel like he was the one punching it all out.

Shane's fingers dig in. "Well, is it working?"

"Da, Hollander," Ilya says without hesitation. "Is working perfectly."

They kiss again, but slower. Their hands continue their roaming, but they do it on their own—Ilya, and Shane too, surely, are both thinking ahead. To limbs tangling, and to the sensation that always comes rushing in like the tide when you first disappear into someone else's body; when you roll yourself out and split yourself in half.

Soon enough, Ilya's rummaging through the nightstand. The lube is vanilla-scented, he sees, and brand new. He clicks it open impatiently and then tears off one condom as well. The wrapper is an ugly shade of green and says Wanna eat my baguette? Ilya doesn't even snicker, just throws it in Shane's direction.

One thing that Ilya loves is kissing, especially kissing Shane. He sucks on his bottom lip while his fingers in their vanilla-scented coat blindly reach down to start working him open. He hums, teeth sinking into the soft flesh, but he runs into unexpected resistance before his middle finger ever makes it one knuckle past the rim.

He pulls away, his necklace dangling between them like the handcuffs from before. "What's wrong?"

Shane's eyes blink open, all shiny and wide. The tip of his tongue touches the spot Ilya's bitten. "Nothing," he says hurriedly.

"You feel tense," Ilya says. He almost said weird—it does feel odd, it's like he's trying to push through something with no give—but he knows Shane would misunderstand.

Shane shakes his head. "I'm good," he insists.

Ilya huffs out a breath. Leaning closer, the edge of his nose bumps against Shane's. He moves his fingers away. "Shane," he says.

Whatever tension there was, Ilya watches it pop in real time as Shane breathes out. Even his fingers against Ilya's skin relax, feeling warm instead of clammy. "I'm really okay," Shane assures him, almost believably this time. "Ilya."

Shane moves up, chasing another kiss, but Ilya pulls away. "Shane, is not like that. There is no Sochi after this, okay? 6 AM, yes, maybe, but not Sochi. Or Russia."

There's a glint of disbelief in Shane's eyes. Or, well, not disbelief; more of a correction he doesn't want to say out loud. His eyes say it for him, though: There might be no Sochi, but Russia's still there. Your sick father is still there. He would kill you for this, yes, kill you with his government-issued gun, bang between your eyes. And don't think 6 AM is anything but a beast that will eat you whole. It's not even that far away, either. And at the same time: But that's okay. It's enough that right now isn't Sochi or Russia or 6 AM, as long as we both know it. Shane smiles.

Ilya kisses him to eat the worry and hesitation, and to swallow it away. Touching his fingers to Shane's hole is easier now, no real resistance, just a path that eventually opens up and grants more and more access.

"Better," Shane exhales when Ilya adds a finger, "so much better, Ilya."

"You're a mess," Ilya says right into his mouth. "Look at yourself."

"I know." But Shane's eyes are closed; it's just that his cock is wet with pre-cum and trailing evidence across their abdomens. "You're always doing this to me, fuck."

"Look at you," Ilya says again. It's just to himself now, voice raspy.

"Look at you," Shane argues. He moans suddenly when Ilya pushes his fingers deeper, body arching up, hands squeezing. "Fuck, look at what you do to me."

"Yes," Ilya agrees. Open-mouthed, he creates his own wet path down to Shane's neck and sucks at the sweat-salty skin briefly. Knowing even now that he can't leave a lasting mark, as much as he would love to.

"Do you still want me," he says into the skin. He so loves speaking to it, or into Shane's mouth, against his pores, letting it get lost in his hair. He's asking, too, more than just one question. Perhaps it's not a fair moment to ask. It's easy to guess at the answer; easy to assume that Shane wants to feel more than Ilya's fingers, more and harder and faster.

Shane confirms by burying his fingers in Ilya's hair and tugging. "Still want you," he says.

The second Ilya gives him more space, Shane shuffles and moves his body down. Rolls his hips awkwardly—it looks more like wiggling—as if trying to bottom out on something that can't fill him up properly. He does his best, though, to fuck himself on Ilya's long digits, his cock falling to the side as he tries to find a better angle. Slightly to the right, he finally finds the spot. Ilya feels it a split second before he hears it in Shane's loud grunt of satisfaction. Right there, it says.

It's tempting. So tempting to let it unspool like this. Ilya could kneel here until his wrist goes numb and he would be happy to let Shane use him. He would goad him into an orgasm, even, or pose it as a challenge, can you come on my hand, Shane? can you do it? good boy, don't even have to touch you, all you need is my fingers, and it would be hot, it would be arm-over-face mind-blowing.

The thing is that Shane is not the only one so hungry for it. For what it's worth, Ilya thinks he might go fucking crazy if he doesn't get to disappear in Shane's tightness again. He spent two years dreaming about it and then it happened once, frantic like they already knew that time was running out even back then, and after that… Nothing. Just an incredible vastness that's so easy to lose yourself in. Almost to a fault, even. Ilya had stopped looking for an escape route until it presented itself in a polo shirt at a hotel bar in Paris and agreed to walk out with him.

Shane's fingers appear practiced when they pop the condom open and roll it down Ilya's cock like it's nothing. Do you put it on your thing? Ilya wants to ask. Use it often? Think of me?

But he doesn't. There's something in the air that stops him. Ilya loves laughing in bed, joking inappropriately, teasing, tickling. It feels wrong right now, though. Not because he's scared. It's just—there's a certain atmosphere that he wants to hold on to, one that he doesn't want to fade. It's like he's underwater with an unlimited oxygen supply. There's no reason to come up for air, is there?

Shane holds his own legs up, knees bending. Ilya, on the other hand, holds on to Shane's thigh while he guides his cock in, slicked up and throbbing.

Throwing his head back against the pillow, Shane groans again. "Fuck, fuck."

Ilya pushes all the way in and stills. He's distantly aware of the tremble in his arms.

"Fuck, Ilya, move," Shane urges.

Now Ilya laughs, just a small amused sound. Instead of moving, he sways his hips from left to right. He can feel himself burrowing deeper, but the most satisfying thing about it is Shane's curled eyebrows and quickly closing eyes.

"Like that?" Ilya asks breathlessly through a smirk.

"Yes—No. No, not like that, I need you to fuck me."

"Did nobody teach you to say please, Shane?"

"Please," Shane supplies immediately. A fresh wave of arousal rolls over Ilya; a wave so big it almost knocks him down. It shouldn't surprise him anymore, but it does—the way Shane willingly obeys and it doesn't seem to matter whether the command is get on your knees or beg me to fuck you.

As if he can hear Ilya's thoughts, Shane repeats: "Please, Ilya, please fuck me, I need it, need you—"

Ilya's always been bad with words. His actions speak louder, which is sometimes not the greatest, but he thinks it'll do here. He pulls out, about halfway, and then drives his cock back in.

Shane's desperate, grabby hands are better than thank you, too. He's tight around Ilya but opening up so beautifully. Like his body is trying to take Ilya in, like it's begging for him to do more, like it's dying to hear the smack of skin against skin, hipbones hitting Shane's muscles, faster, fuck me, harder.

They fall into a rhythm, and Shane lets his legs go; sweat breaks out and the room swells with sex.

It takes Ilya who-knows-how-long to notice that Shane is mouthing something.

"What?" he asks, not ceasing his thrusts. He just can't hear the words over his own labored breathing.

Shane looks at him. His face looks empty aside from the pleasure that's nestled there, taking residence from his eyes to the corners of his mouth. "Want more," he says simply. And then he's gone again, back in the world behind his closed lids. Head back, sinking into the pillow, exposing the arch of his throat.

Ilya can give more. First, he makes himself break the rhythm and stop. Second, he grips the backs of Shane's knees, surprised to feel the sweat that's gathered there like water. There is no resistance here, either, when he brings them up and pushes them almost to Shane's shoulders. Letting his bodyweight do the rest is only logical. He rests it against Shane fully and lets his hips follow, burying himself all the way in.

The groan that crawls out of Shane's mouth is long and low.

"Good?" Ilya asks.

"I can't," Shane starts, trapping them in a moment of complete stillness. "Can't fucking describe it, Ilya, I feel you everywhere. You're fucking everywhere."

Which is saying something, because most of the time, Ilya feels like he is nowhere.

Experimentally, he lifts his hips. He lets them fall back in, and even though he's not putting much force into it, it feels like he's falling directly into Shane's body.

"Fuck, Shane," he cries out. He doesn't know how to verbalize it, but he hopes Shane understands that he's never been this deep in any body or anybody before.

"Again," Shane pleads.

Come to think of it, Ilya is just as willing to obey as Shane. He does it over and over—hips up, let them fall down. Big thrusts that make him dizzy every single time. It's an incredible feeling Ilya only lets go of so he can go faster once he starts to feel his orgasm curling in the pit of his stomach.

Here's something about Ilya Rozanov: he loses rhythm, of course he does, but he doesn't realize it. He thinks—he's certain that he's just pounding harder and faster, but he's almost there when Shane suddenly pants, right there, fuck, and Ilya can only pray to the God he doesn't believe in that he hits the spot again before he comes.

"No, nonono, wait for me, Ilya—"

Shane's fingers are scrambling, scratching at Ilya's skin wherever he can reach it, but Ilya's chasing it, coming already.

"Come on," Shane begs, and maybe he's using his stupid Captain voice or something, but Ilya knows he can't let him down. With gritted teeth and his dick spurting into the condom, body shaking, he fucks Shane and it's almost painful but it feels so good to do it at the same time—and then, finally, Shane's body closes around him like a vise. Ilya cries out again. It mingles with whatever the sound is that pours out from Shane's O-shaped lips like a river.

Ilya collapses, more spent than after all the hours walking across Paris. There's a feeling he only gets after sex—a pleasant emptying-out. A comforting, cooling nothing that fills his stomach better than any food, even if for just a moment. Everything is hazy except for the blood rushing through his body and signaling its stream through all his pulse points. His cross rests against Shane's, the one at his throat, and thumps.

"Holy shit," Shane says eventually. He sounds amazed. For the first time, his hands don't fall over his face to hide it; instead, they fall into Ilya's sweaty locks as if to hold him close.

"Couldn't say it better," Ilya mumbles into Shane's pecs.

"Probably not, what with your broken English," Shane teases lazily.

"I thought Canadian boys were supposed to be polite, but that is very xenophobic, Hollander."

" Wow. Xenophobic."

There are smiles that are clearly audible in both their voices, so much so that they almost sound like a confession of something far deeper than what's actually being said. That's still something that scares Ilya to the core. He shuffles.

"Be right back," he says. He's worried his tone is all wrong, so he gives Shane a quick kiss on the cheek as he pulls out and leaves the bed. He only gets a satisfied hum in response. Good.

On the outside, all Ilya does is get rid of the condom and pee. On the inside, he talks his heart down from beating so fast. What's the harm in all this, even if they're smiling so much; even if there are things they're not saying? The real world, sure. But the world has always been scary. Shane, on the other hand, is safe. Is reassurance, is calm. Is something—someone—that Ilya can trust. For once, he refuses to see the harm in that.

His feet tap-tap across the bathroom tile and then thud-thud over the soft carpet. On his way back to the bed, he passes the bathtub. His fingers graze the surface. The water has gotten cool, cold to the touch. They can let it out later—Ilya is kind of happy to see the body that held them, so still and present, even if cold.

"I am fucking starving, Hollander," he says as he nears the bed.

No response.

"Shane?" he presses, although softer.

He's met with a soft snore. Fuck. Shane's body is exposed, beautiful and elegant lines of muscle on display. His chest goes up, goes down. Another snore.

A part of Ilya knows—of course—that he should wake him up. If not for the sake of their twelve hours that are steadily running thin and thinner, then for the sake of a quick shower. Shane would hate existing covered in his own filth.

But the thing is that Ilya has never seen Shane sleep. This is the first time that he's able to watch how peaceful he looks; how smooth his face is when he's not worrying about this and that or carrying the weight of the entire world on his two shoulders. It makes Ilya feel like he is safe, too. And calm, and reassurance. He doesn't really know what to do with that, or where to look within himself to find the will to cut it short.

So he doesn't.

Instead, he goes slowly and softly to the closet and pulls an extra blanket off the top shelf. Covers Shane up to his shoulders, careful not to rouse him.

Then throws on his underwear and his shirt, inside-out, and sits in the chair by the window nook, knees pulled up to his chest. The Parisian skyline yawns dark and wide in front of him.

Ilya feels… happy.

THE ROUTE / THE GATE

Chapter End Notes

trivia and fact-checking for this chapter 🛁

less housekeeping this time, yay! the only thing we really need to talk about is the hotel. it doesn't exist in the way it's depicted in the fic. you can't get there through that gate--to my knowledge--and the name is made up. (thank you to Wadji for checking my French there!) it is heavily inspired by this hotel, though, as it's honestly perfect and in the same location.

oh, okay, one more thing: i am *obsessed* with the way shane looks up at ilya even though they're practically the same height. it's quite possible that i've already mentioned it in this fic, but can you really blame me? 😭

if you're enjoying this, please do leave a comment/kudo if you have the time and/or energy, i appreciate it so much. emoji comments included! ♥

i'm on threads or on tumblr! i'd love to see you there. ♥

Chapter 11: 4AM

Chapter Notes

and i am still so happy you're here. ❤️

thank you so much for the recent outpouring of love that this fic's received lately. i don't have the words to tell you how much it means to me. ily all.

please mind the updated tags and feel free to toggle the text below for more info!

cw!

as per the tag, shane goes through something he calls a panic attack upon waking up. it's the best word he has for it, but it's really more of a meltdown that will probably ring familiar to people on the spectrum. i drew from my own experience almost beat for beat and thought for thought so pls be kind and of course, take care of yourself if it's something that triggers you. in terms of what goes on: it happens, then ilya tries to help, and then they talk about it. if you want to skip all of that, you're only safe to start reading at "Not sure," he says with a shrug. "But you helped, now."

always take care of yourself first! love you! <3

A cough wakes Shane up. His own, of course; saliva catching in his throat. He must have been snoring again. His dad recently told him that he has to be ridden with his mom's genetics through and through (to which Yuna snorted, snickered, objected). Shane has his own objections to it, too. I don't fucking snore, to Hayden in a hotel room, just to hear Yeah you do, buddy, like a damn lumberjack over there.

And then there's this. Moments that catch him with his mouth open in the middle of the night. Since he's alone, it feels as though his clone is sitting at the edge of the bed, eyebrows up. Like, really? Who are you trying to convince here?

That's why he usually tries to fall asleep on his side. It's good for his acid reflux and he doesn't move a lot in his sleep, so—

Wait.

Wait just a fucking second.

Shane fell asleep on his back. He's still on his back. And he's not alone.

His eyes shoot open, trying to refamiliarize themselves with his surroundings. It comes over him like a hot flash, except it unfurls backwards. It's almost like his body is being hurled through time in the wrong order—Ilya taking him apart in bed, the bathtub, the hotel, the dancing, the strawberries, the game, the map, Paris. It culminates in Twelve hours, out in Paris; he hears it like it's happening right now and not… how many hours ago?

God, how long has he been asleep?

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Before his mind can catch up and start calculating based on the random falling asleep to snoring pipeline, there's a sound. Not so dissimilar to Yuna's snickering, actually.

Shane near jumps from the bed, but his body settles on sitting up sharply. It dizzies him for a moment, especially in combination with all the light in the room. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots the bathtub—but his gaze is ultimately drawn to the source of the noise. It's a darker corner he didn't notice before. Ilya is nothing more than a silhouette juxtaposed against the darkened window. Shane gulps, wondering when Paris became a prop to what he is—what they are.

"You look so scared," Ilya chirps from his little nook. Amusement laces his tone. "Like rabbit."

Shane knows enough now to understand that there's no malice in it, but it feels like a jab anyway. "Fuck off," he snaps.

"Are you always so grumpy in the morning, Hollander?"

It doesn't help that Shane can't see his face. It's all warm-colored but the features are too indistinct, and every word jams itself into Shane's chest in between heartbeats; getting stuck there, lodged. It can't be morning, Shane thinks frantically. It can't be six yet.

"What time is it?" he croaks out.

Ilya sighs. Is it a sigh of exasperation or of boredom? Or is he just exhaling? "Is four twenty-seven, Shane. Look next to you."

Kicking off the blanket—how did that even end up over him?—even though it leaves him exposed, Shane looks to his right. There's an old-fashioned alarm clock right next to a bedside lamp, the digits all the same angry red, and his eyes catch it just in time to watch twenty-seven flip to twenty-eight.

The problem is that he flips with it. Or something inside him does, at least.

For as much as he wants to approach this logically, he can feel his mind starting to spiral. All his thoughts turn into sand in an hourglass that's been turned upside down once again. He hasn't wasted too much time sleeping, but his nap was long enough to bring them to an hour and a half away from six. He's still covered in his own filth, so he's going to have to take a shower, which will only eat up more time, and he'll still feel disgusting afterwards anyway, so he'll be in a bad mood for the remaining time, and the remaining time will be even shorter than ninety minutes, and ninety minutes is nothing, he forgot to ever realize they were halfway through and now he's wasted so much of what little they've got left, and everything is itchy, it's all the filth on him, and he can't make himself move, so that means wasting even more time—

"Shane," Ilya says. "Hey, what's wrong?"

Shane lets his legs fall off the bed, feet landing against the soft carpet. Distantly, he's aware of his hand going up, of tugging at his eyelashes again; of rubbing at his eyebrow hard, up and down, rubbing, rubbing.

He doesn't have the words to explain—or rather, he has many and doesn't know which ones to choose. And the longer he sits here like this, the more time drips away, and the emptier the upper half of the hourglass is.

Shane doesn't actually realize that Ilya is right by him until he says, "I am going to touch your hand now, ok?" and even though he doesn't give enough time for it to register, it's still less alarming when his fingers wrap around Shane's wrist. They pull at it with force. The tug doesn't cease until Shane gives in and leaves his temple be. The skin there is pounding, but it's just another way to count the seconds as they tick away.

"Sorry," he manages to get out.

"You have to talk to me, Hollander. What's going on?"

Shane looks up. For some reason, it's been getting easier and easier to look at Ilya and then keep looking at him; even if their eyes lock. It's just not so easy to allow it, especially in moments like this—red, on the verge of tears just because he's being stupid. It can be hard to keep still and not avert his gaze, and he doesn't always succeed.

"It's just…" Shane trails off, staring at the mole on Ilya's cheek. "I've just wasted so much time, it's so late—"

"A few minutes, Shane," he says. Like saying his name out loud—first or last—is going to ground him. Like he wants to be grounded in this stupid reality where he's let many precious minutes pass him by. "It's no big deal."

"Well, it's a big deal to me!" Shane knocks Ilya's hand away and gets up. The room feels warm; too warm. He knows he put his clothes in a neat pile somewhere, but he can't fucking find it. His eyes must be skirting over it—apparently he can't even look for things like a normal person—and when they finally land on it, he lunges for it. Grabbing his shirt and gripping it makes it easier to ignore the tremble in his fingers.

He throws it over his head. You're so fucking stupid for wasting this. He angrily pulls on his underwear. You have so little time and this is what you do with it? Pants follow; he stumbles. This will be over in less than two hours, which is shorter than a fucking hockey game, and you sleep through it? He puts on his socks. You fucking idiot.

Shane reaches for the hoodie, but it's gone. Out of breath and angry, he looks up—only to see it trapped in Ilya's arms.

He knows what's coming next. He's going to be told to calm down. To stop behaving irrationally; to get a grip; any and all iterations. He's been very good about not letting himself break down in such a way, and on top of this inexplicable panic, he feels ashamed. His reddened cheeks can't get redder, but embarrassment heats them up anyway.

Ilya—of course—doesn't say any of those things. In fact, he doesn't say anything. He's wearing a slight frown when Shane finally looks him in the face, but other than that, nothing.

It stumps Shane into stillness. It's almost like a hammer to the hourglass, which means that Shane spills all over but at least he stops feeling like he's running out of time and slipping away. He ponders, even, whether those things he expected Ilya to say were just his own voice somewhere deep inside his head, daring him to believe them.

"Fuck," Shane mumbles. He still feels the shock of a gaping hole where his chest should be, but his energy source has been depleted. "Fuck, Ilya, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I freaked out."

Ilya has the audacity to shrug. "That's okay. Put on your hoodie, we're going outside."

I should shower, Shane thinks idly. There's more time I could waste.

Obediently, he takes the hoodie from Ilya's hands and does as he's told. They quietly make their way out of the hotel room, leaving the bed a mess and the bathtub still full. All the way, Shane feels like a pot of boiling water that somebody's put a lid on. It's a preventative measure that's bound to blow and spray all over the stove—if his heartrate is anything to go by—but it's working for the moment.

The air outside feels gut-punchingly fresh. Shane, body both tired and disoriented from the nap he never wanted to take, shivers. Goosebumps press against the sleeves of his hoodie, so he hugs himself. It's hard to tell whether he's trying to keep the chill out or keep another potential outburst in. Maybe it's both. After all, he's perpetually trying to shove himself back in and present only what he considers appropriate. Or perfect.

Quiet in locker rooms, empty of clapbacks; focused on the ice, often counting down from ten to stop himself from degloving and punching somebody. Stoic and diplomatic for the reporters, fishing for words that stand in the right order. Nobody knows. Nobody has any idea how much he holds himself in, how much of him is a well-kept secret, how much not even he knows what's bubbling inside him.

Well. Not nobody. Ilya's gotten a glimpse, now. His only reaction so far is a fast walk through the hotel's sprawling garden until he finds a place that spits them out onto the street.

Out and away from the robust greenery, the air is even cooler. It almost feels like a hand around Shane's throat, but he dutifully follows in Ilya's steps. This is either a different street or he's fully lost it, but he relies on the familiar narrow angle and slight downward slope. They're sure to get… somewhere.

The cum that's dried on Shane's skin is starting to crust and irritate him. "Where are we going?"

"Not far," Ilya answers briefly.

It doesn't help. Shane can feel the anxious wave of uncertainty rising again. It starts roiling in the pit of his stomach, not unlike an orgasm, and he can almost imagine it spreading through his blood stream, infecting cells and crawling up and down his nervous system.

Before it can reach his head, Ilya touches his forearm to make sure he sees they're veering left. That small touch is like an electric spark.

Shane follows it around a small bend, and Ilya curses in loud Russian. It almost sounds like blood. "Closed," he grumbles, thumb jabbing behind him at the gate. He starts following the bars, though, rounding the property together with the fence.

And Shane doesn't understand. Sure, there's greenery behind it—maybe a small park with a gazebo by the look of it—but what's the big deal with going there? Why are they even here? Why anything? He wants to take Ilya by his shoulders and shake him, because maybe he's just sleepwalking. Maybe that's why he hasn't realized that it's all ruined and there is no point.

Ilya is quicker than Shane and his brain, though. Like a black cat, he finds the lowest point in the fence and easily jumps—well, no, he just steps over it.

"Come on, Hollander," he says with a wave of his hand. In the mild light of the two nearby street lamps, he soon turns to a silhouette again.

"That's trespassing!" Shane hisses. The street is completely vacant, cradled in the deep lull between late-night party-goers and early-morning workers, but still. "Are you really fucking insane?"

"Sure," Ilya agrees. "Still no fun doing it alone."

"Jesus Christ," Shane curses under his breath. A whole army of ants is marching up and down his body, but he'd rather get caught trespassing with somebody than on the street alone. He steps over the short barrier. "I fucking hate you, Rozanov."

Ilya blows raspberry and wanders further into the park.

What Shane saw from the outside matches the inside pretty well. There is a gazebo and there is lots of greenery surrounding a large sandpit. For the life of him—or maybe for the loudness in his brain—Shane can't remember the name of the game that would be good to play here; he just knows there is one.

They walk along the side for a bit. But they've already walked so much, and they have so little time, and it's still the only thing on Shane's mind.

He sighs. "Seriously, Ilya, what are we doing here?"

Evasive as always, Ilya doesn't say anything; just sits down on one of the benches. The flowers planted in the ground all around them look dark in this light, making the place seem ominous. "Sit," Ilya says, patting the spot next to him.

"I'm not a fucking dog," Shane snickers. Sits down. Stubbornly, he shoves his hands into the pocket of his hoodie.

"You freaked out, big deal," Ilya continues. Rummaging in his own pocket, he pulls out his scrunched up pack of smokes. Only one pitiful cigarette rolls around and bumps against the BIC lighter. "When I freak out, I smoke."

"No way," Shane protests. "I'm not fucking putting that in my mouth. No."

Despite Shane's words, Ilya shakes the last cigarette out and rolls it between his fingers.

"I said no, Ilya," Shane doubles down, voice a little lower than he'd expect considering the low rumbling panic.

"Do you think one cigarette will kill you?" Ilya asks him, in his usual half-mocking manner, lips already curling into a grin. "Do it for me. It will calm you down."

Shane sighs. The thing is, this beats reassurance. He remembers being a small kid and going through similar bursts of discontent, where everything felt wrong, slightly off-kilter, forever crooked because of a small mistake he'd made. He remembers his mom crouching next to him, saying you'll get them next time, not a bone in her body understanding that next time doesn't matter when this time is ruined. He remembers coaches telling him to look ahead; teammates patting him on the shoulder despite missed passes—and fuck, don't even get him started on overtimes.

Yet here Ilya is, offering him a cigarette (almost pushing it into his mouth, really), trying to combat it with a different kind of weird. Like he's saying, Let me beat this unimaginable feeling with something else unimaginable. Smoke a cigarette, Hollander.

Shane takes it and gingerly rolls it between his index finger and thumb. He has actually smoked before. Twice, to be precise: once a cigarette and once a joint.

The cigarette happened while he was staying with his billet family—he hasn't thought about them in ages and this is the second time tonight, how strange—and tried to make friends. Imagine teenage Shane Hollander behind the bleachers, surrounded by a group of boys who carefully passed a stolen pack of cigarettes from one hand to the next. He can't remember whose parents they nicked it from, but he knows that they all touched the plastic-wrapped pack like there was Dior lipstick on it or grease from calloused fingers. A mix of repulsion and fascination that he felt even as he put the filter between his lips. Somebody lit it and Shane inhaled wrong; he remembers smoke filling out his mouth and coating his tongue. He didn't know what to do, tried again; everybody laughed at him and clapped his back. It almost seemed like they were laughing with him, but they never became friends.

The joint was Hayden's idea. It was a macho moment for him and a vomit-filled evening for Shane, and neither of them has touched weed ever since.

"It will not bite you," Ilya says now.

It zaps Shane back into the present. His clammy fingers have softened the filter; it tastes and feels like somebody's chewed on it when he finally puts it in his mouth.

Ilya smirks. He pulls out the lighter Shane gave him and lights it, cradling it between his palms. Shane, awkwardly, tries to inhale as the tip burns bright orange around its perimeter and starts to eat at the tobacco.

It's okay. Shane can do this. He inhales big, determined not to fail again and to get it past the doorstep of his throat.

Huge mistake.

As the cigarette smoke travels down to his lungs, Shane's body doesn't know whether to cough or spit, or even how to breathe. At the same time, his eyes catch on a statue just over Ilya's shoulder: he can't see it properly, but he can see that it's a man in papal-looking clothing. And that he's, like, literally holding his own head in his hands.

Shane's body settles on sputtering and coughing.

"Oh my God, Hollander," Ilya laughs, his voice going higher as it bursts out of him. "Maybe this is too dangerous for you, yes? Don't die."

"Fuck off," Shane says again, but he doesn't protest when Ilya easily takes the cigarette from between his fingers and brings it to his own mouth. Shane wipes at his lips, tongue clicking against his teeth. It tastes disgusting.

Ilya shrugs. "Did it help?"

Shane hopes his furrowed brow can hide his gaze, pinned to Ilya's mouth again. "Smoking really is just so bad for you, you know," he says deflectively.

"Ugh. I asked if it helped, not to be doctored."

"No. Well—" Shane rubs at his chest absent-mindedly, looking for the hole he felt there. It's still open right between his clavicles, but he's shocked to realize it's shrunk. "Yeah. It did. I guess I was too focused on not dying or something."

Ilya winks at him, tongue-in-cheek, and he takes another drag. "You can thank me later."

"Yeah, obviously, thank you," Shane rushes to say. "I'm sorry I freaked out. I know I said that before but… we had a really nice time before, and I just…"

"Can I ask a question?" Ilya says. Shane shrugs. "What happened? Did you have a bad dream or something?"

Shane scoffs at first, but he quickly sees that Ilya is being genuine. His eyes are too inquisitive to dismiss, nostrils flaring with anticipation.

"No," Shane admits. He looks at the freaky statue one more time before leaning back and running his fingers through his hair. God, it feels gross and greasy. He looks to his knees. "I'm not always like this, honestly. Not even often. Maybe when I was a kid, it happened more regularly, but… I don't know. Fuck, I'm not even answering your question."

"Try again," Ilya says like it's not big deal. He rolls that r like he's turning over a new page.

Except it's a lie. Shane knows it's a lie. Ilya knows maybe better than anyone how difficult it is to try again, to go from the start, to attempt and re-attempt. It's just that he's making it seem easy, and perhaps that's a quality very few people possess. Ilya does.

Shane takes a breath. He looks to Ilya's knuckles instead, and the soft veins that cast shy shadows down the back of his hand as they hold the cigarette. He can try for Ilya, he thinks.

"It's a sort of panic, I think," he says. "I woke up, and the only thing I could think about was that I fucked up. But it's not just this hour," he rushes to add, "it's like the whole night is fucked. I fell asleep for thirty minutes, right, but it feels like… Like I put the fucking Kilimanjaro between us."

"And you know this is stupid? Like… when it happens?"

Shane snickers. "Yeah, actually. Maybe you're joking or whatever, but I know I'm not being rational, it's just… I don't know how to stop it, I guess."

Ilya shakes his head. "Stopping things is overrated. You spend your life hiding them and then, what? It kills you." He says it with a shrug, but Shane can guess at a second meaning that Ilya is, ironically, hiding at the moment. His eyes travel to the cross always around his neck, this time, although he can barely see anything but the glint of the chain beyond the collar of his hoodie. Is that, in a way, a noose? Is it around his throat instead of resting over his chest?

Shane sighs. "Sure, but it's still… I don't know. Sorry."

"Stop saying sorry," Ilya says resolutely. "So boring."

"Wow," Shane smirks, "I think that's the first time anybody's called a panic attack boring." If that's what it was, he adds in his head.

"In the history of ever?"

"In the history of ever," Shane confirms. He can't help the fond smile that settles over his face. As that warmth starts to fight for the spot in the middle of his chest, a pinprick of a thought makes its way out. "Uh, why didn't you wake me up, by the way?"

Ilya looks at him and through him. Like he can see Shane's reeling mind behind it, looking for an outlet to burst through again; possibly finding it in pinning blame on somebody else and rooting itself in disappointment.

Before Shane can speak—to make it worse or better?—he shrugs for the upteenth time. "Maybe I thought people were like dogs. They only sleep when they feel safe, yes?"

"I don't know that much about dogs," Shane mumbles, taken aback by Ilya's open tone. "It would make sense, though."

"Was nice. When I thought you felt safe with me. It made me…" Ilya trails off. He purses his lips, eyes fleeting to the side. He shakes his head as if looking for the right word. "It made me happy, Hollander."

It punches the air out of Shane in one fine motion. At first, he feels that rush again—oh no, he was happy and I fucked that up, too—but then he reconsiders. He leaves that part of him buried, at least momentarily, and instead focuses on the actual words. On the sentiment. On making Ilya happy, and how, if people are like dogs, he felt safe enough to say it. Stupidly, so stupidly, Shane feels tears threatening to spill.

"I was happy, too," Shane agrees softly.

Ilya blows out a cloud of smoke and watches it waft up. "Does anything help when you get like that?" he asks, changing the subject again.

Shane ponders it. Ridiculously, the one and only thing that comes to mind is saying You. It's obviously far too sentimental and possibly untrue, but he can't recall anything else calming him down as much as that soft reassurance followed by an equally soft touch; or even Ilya letting him exist and existing with him. No crap solutions, no back-up plans on offer, nothing. But Shane doesn't know if that's the key to his brain in the long run, since he doesn't even know why it happened.

"Not sure," he says with a shrug. "But you helped, now."

"Okay." Another drag, Ilya's cheeks nice and hollow. "Good."

Shane shuffles closer to him on the bench. "Do you wanna waste more time with me?"

Ilya takes one last drag of his cigarette and stubs it out across the ground. Amazingly, he doesn't even angrily dispose of it this time, just shoves it back into the empty pack. "Depends."

"I just really need to take a shower," Shane says almost sheepishly. "So maybe we could go back to the hotel, just for a little while? You could shower with me."

Ilya playfully nudges him in the shoulder to make it obvious that he's joking. "No. You are scared the police will come here and arrest you. For trespassing."

"I mean, I can shower perfectly fine just by myself—"

"Shut up, Shane. You would not do that to me. Not when you fell asleep after we—"

"Oh my god, you asshole!" Shane exclaims through a spurt of laughter. The jab only stings a little bit. Unfamiliar happiness blooms and heals it almost immediately, and he jumps up from the bench. "And fuck you for making me put that thing in my mouth, by the way!"

Ilya springs to his feet. "I can think of other things to put in your mouth, Hollander."

Through an eyeroll and a lousy attempt at a tackle, they laugh and practically skip out of the park. Shane nearly falls over the knee-high fence and Ilya has to steady him, touching his elbows and holding him in place. The urge to kiss him rushes over Shane; it feels stronger than the wave of panic earlier, and stronger than the disgust at the cigarette smoke in his lungs. It's quite possibly the strongest thing he's ever felt, yet he can't bring himself to do it. Too exposed. And he's always too aware of that, never reckless enough, forever frustrated.

Another thing he is too aware of is the time. His tired body is slowly reverting to what it knows and counting the passage of it by shifts on the ice. All Shane knows is that there are far too many of them between that fence and the door of their hotel room when they finally make it there—even if he logically knows it couldn't have taken them longer than five minutes.

The air in their attic suite feels stuffy with sex when they step in. Shane relaxes into it almost immediately. If anything, he wonders why he didn't melt into it in the first place—the tension has popped and it's only comfortable now.

Mostly. There's a little threat at the back of his head that all this silence and ease will invite doubt. As if creating space for something tender immediately meant leaving enough room for the bad to settle in as well; as if he couldn't have this simply the way it was.

Shane tries to push those thoughts away by slicing the situation into digestible bites. Lock the door, kicks off shoes, turn on the light, go to the bathroom, start to undress. The distraction works—largely because Ilya never stops touching the second the door closes.

His fingers graze Shane's wrist, they tangle in the mess of his clothes, they playfully tap his ass once he's naked. They guide him into the shower and an arm vines around his waist in order to twist the tap.

Shane's shown more of himself than he ever has to anybody and the world has-not-ended. It wakes him up, spurs him into movement.

The water pressure from the overhead shower is heavenly on his skin. Rain and sweat and cum peel off his body, all helped by Ilya's fingers running incessantly over muscles and joints. Before he knows it, his back is pressed against the cold tile and there's a hungry mouth at his shoulder.

Ilya's hair is a mess when it's wet, the curls all tying together, but Shane slides his fingers in it, anyway.

"Mm, Shane," Ilya breathes out. It sounds like a happy sigh and like you're so beautiful at the same time, and Shane's not the best at understanding second and third meanings, but he thinks it also sounds like a little over an hour is nothing.

"I know," he says soothingly, pulling Ilya into him.

Lazily, he lets his hand find its path downward. Ilya's cock is soft as he cups it in his palm. It's pleasant just to hold it; an intimacy Shane isn't used to. The knowledge that they can meet halfway and it's not about striking a deal about mutual pleasure or fucking their feelings into or out of each other only deepens when Ilya does the same.

"M too tired," Shane murmurs in apology. He's turned on, but it's only making him feel abuzz. The rest is there, too, it's just that it is the size of a small pea in the pit of his stomach.

Ilya palms Shane's cock anyway, closing his hand around as much of it as he can, fingers lightly grazing Shane's balls. "Is okay, Shane."

"You like me even if I can't get it up?" Shane asks with a stupid smile.

Ilya pulls away and kisses him gently. "Of course, old man."

"I'm one month older," Shane argues. "If anything, that makes you a fucking baby."

Another kiss. Then on Shane's cheek, his jawline, his eyebrow. "You're calling me your baby, Hollander?"

"God, you're fucking insufferable." But Shane never relents. They keep touching each other, fingers tracing places others couldn't easily gain access to. Shane knows he will feel them there in an hour but also in a week or in a year; even if it's Ilya touching him again, he'll only be returning to places where his phantom hands live already, permanent address and all.

When they kiss, it's equally lazy. Drops of water from the shower streak down Shane's face and form small rivers that run into his mouth. They mix with spit; flow from Shane's tongue over to Ilya's.

Eventually, the tiles dig into Shane's shoulders a bit too hard. He has to push against Ilya's chest to move, and their mouths come apart. There is so much in Ilya's eyes when Shane blinks his own open and looks. He feels the last almost twelve hours fall through him and land in the balls of his feet. No matter how hard he tries, he can't remember who he was back in the other hotel, sitting at the bar and feeling so goddamn small.

The impossibility of this situation dawns on him again. It feels different than before—the end of this all is much nearer and far more inevitable. It no longer matters whether their six am deadline is a thousand feet tall or small like a squashable bug—the only thing that matters is that it's there at all. He's left their other versions so far behind. Forgotten Sochi, forgotten about the NHL, forgotten about all the other showers and all the other hotel rooms. Now that having to face them looms closer, Shane doesn't know how to tell them apart anymore—thhis version of them and the other—or if they're the same thing.

Fuck, maybe they're the same thing. Aren't they? And if they are, what the fuck does that mean? What is this?

Shane digs his fingers into Ilya's biceps as if to ground himself. "What are we gonna do?" he asks quietly. It's barely audible over the water's stream, so he reaches over and turns it off. He says, again: "What the fuck are we gonna do, Ilya?"

As if mimicking him, Ilya rests his hands on Shane's upper arms and squeezes the muscle so hard it almost hurts. "We still have one hour, Shane."

But that's not enough. It was never enough. "I know," Shane mumbles.

"Do you want to get dressed? Walk with me for a little bit longer?" Ilya's palms skirt down Shane's wet skin. They catch at the elbows, then retreat back up to his throat and take the route down his pecs instead. In the end, they hook themselves over Shane's hips. "ожалуйста."

Shane remembers the word. He heard it many times in far-away Sochi—when being handed food at the cafeteria, from the mouths of staff at the Olympic village, muttered by the busy teams when asking him to make way. He knows it means please.

"Yeah," he says, although he can't quite erase the sadness from his voice. "Of course."

THE ROUTE / THEIR ENTRANCE TO THE PARK / THE STATUE

Chapter End Notes

trivia and fact-checking for this chapter 🚬

i'm here with nerdy info because i once again stumbled upon a cool place here that i want to talk about :))

- the statue they see is that of st. denis, the first bishop of paris. the legend goes (according to this article) that st. denis was executed and then walked six kilometers with his head in his hands and stopped to clean it in a fountain,

-which is located @ square suzanne buisson. and i'd never heard of suzanne buisson before, but it turns out that she was a socialist and a feminist who spent her life fighting for equal rights and workers' rights. she was also anti-fascist and co-founded a socialist action committee that activized against the vichy regime during wwii. she lived in the street the boys used to get into the park. i've discovered such cool history through this fic that i have to share it :))

and lastly, if you see more typos than usual, please forgive me, we're going through a heatwave and my brain is just like. not working properly anymore 😂 no need to point them out though, thank you! <3

friends... how do we only have 1hr left? i'm stressed. 😬

if you're enjoying this, please do leave a comment/kudo if you have the time and/or energy, i appreciate it so much. emoji comments included! ♥

i'm on threads or on tumblr! i'd love to see you there. ♥

Chapter 12: 5AM

Chapter Notes

hi. thank you so much for being here. as always, and forever. ♥

i am, like... so extremely nervous to post this, but... *hands you a tissue*
😘🧱

And so the Moon got a bath ready, and when the old man asked, 'Won't it be very dark?', the Moon put his finger through the keyhole, and it was quite light in the bathroom.

Ilya remembers this—or something like it—from a fairytale book his mother used to read to him. At bedtime, she'd bring out this scrappy, worn-down hardback with yellow patches on the pages and a coffee stain on the bright-colored cover. The paper was rough when Ilya touched it with clumsy kid fingers; the corners of it browner than the rest.

When they step out of La Nouvelle Lune, Ilya looks up at the night sky. There's a cloud passing by, shrouding the side of the bright moon as if it were waving, and he hears his mother's voice somewhere inside his head. He lets them echo and he thinks about that paper and how much it was like people, all hard around the edges the more you let others touch you. On the inside more than the outside.

They have one hour left.

"Paris nights are very long," Ilya comments, neck craned as he takes in all the blinking stars.

Shane scoffs. "You don't have to be so eager to be done with it, you know," he says with a smirk.

Ilya dismisses it with a flick of his wrist. "I wonder when sunrise is."

"Five-fifty," Shane supplies automatically. When Ilya looks to him from the side, eyebrow up, he shrugs. "What, I looked it up! I wanted to hit the gym before and then like, watch the sunrise from my window or whatever."

Ilya grins wolfishly. "You hit something," he says. "Or wait, was that me?"

"Asshole," Shane exclaims playfully and bumps Ilya in the shoulder with his closed fist.

Ilya can tell that it only stretches his mouth wider. He sighs softly and straightens up. If the sunrise falls at five-fifty, it probably means they only have a few minutes left before the dark starts to lift. It doesn't take him long to realize that he didn't want to see this hotel or its surrounding gardens in daylight; not even in the pinkish hues of the rising sun. He wants to remember it just as it is, with its mild lamps that look like vintage lanterns, and little pathways dipped neck-deep into shadows.

Neither of them prompts it, but they start walking towards the exit they used an hour ago. To be honest, Ilya is a little surprised that Shane remembers the way—he looked so out of it in the moment that Ilya assumed he wasn't taking in very much. Hollander doesn't falter, though—he leads them both out without an issue.

For a moment, as they leave the greenery and land on the street again, Ilya falls a step behind. He takes Shane in with new eyes. As always, it finds him pondering how much there is that he doesn't know or hasn't ever glanced at, but for the first time, it's more soothing than alarming. He's seen enough, he knows. There is a lot to Shane that he never could have guessed at before tonight. Not for lack of thought—God knows Ilya's spent the past however many years rarely thinking about anything or anyone else—but because of the facade that embraces Shane from every angle.

Shane Hollander, perfect hockey player, has softly transformed into a person so multi-layered it makes Ilya's head spin.

There's this idea, briefly, that maybe he'd never understand him fully; that he has the capability to peel him open day by day for the rest of their lives. There's also this idea, permanently, that this will be over in an hour, and the rest of their lives is reserved for after.

The possibility of having this for longer itches like a hundred mosquito bites.

The route they take is the same, and by the time they're passing the knee-high fence they hopped over before, the sky is a shade lighter. It makes Ilya feel… smaller.

It also feels like every minute they spend walking in silence is a waste. Like they should be playing another game or tirelessly asking each other questions—what's your favorite movie, who was your best friend when you were ten, have you ever had a pet bird, what do you think love is—but the thing is, Ilya is running on very little gas.

He barely manages to muster the feeling of surprise when they reach the end of the street. The cobblestones bend to the right again, but in the bend, there is a beautiful bronze bust of a long-haired woman, cut off just under her breasts. Ilya doesn't even want to run up and cup them and try to be funny about it.

He stops in front of it, though, squinting at the text below in the brightening blue. "Dalida," he says. "Do you know her?"

Gravel scrapes under Shane's shoes when he turns around and looks to Ilya. "Nope," he says plainly, almost sadly.

Ilya hums. "People touch here a lot," he says, and because his heart isn't really in it, he only motions to the rubbed-out, polished patina of her chest.

"Tourists probably think it's good luck, but it seems pretty disrespectful," Shane says. He sounds tired, like his heart isn't in it either.

As if scolded, Ilya takes a cautious step back.

Shane continues: "You like women, though, right?"

Ilya blinks in surprise. Their preferences are not exactly something they've ever talked about—to be honest, he's always thought that Shane would either find it in poor taste or uncomfortable. Not something to be discussed during quick hotel hook ups, that's for sure. Actually, come to think of it, Ilya hasn't properly talked about it with anyone.

He takes a deep breath. "I like both, yes," he says fake-casually. It might be the first time he's saying it out loud so plainly. Shane's always known, obviously. Svetlana knows. Sasha, too. But it's not something that he ever took the time to spell out. Not for anyone—not for himself.

Shane snorts. "You're so quick with everything." It would come across as accusatory if it weren't for the sheepish smile.

"And you?" Ilya asks. "Who do you like?"

"You," Shane blurts out, the tips of his ears immediately aflame. "I mean—fuck, yeah, I like you, but I don't know what that means. Does that make me gay?"

Ilya snickers. Tries so hard to appear nonchalant even though his ribcage has been subject to somersaults, crashing, burning, racing all in the span of the time it took Shane to say I like you. "I don't know, Shane, is it gay to want my dick up your ass?"

"Don't fucking joke," Shane snaps. "I'm being serious."

Ilya grunts. There are only a few things he hates more than having to have heart-to-hearts, especially if his own heart is at play and in, honestly, mortal danger. With a roll of his shoulders, he steps away from the bust completely and comes closer to Shane. "Okay, sorry. I don't know, do you think you're gay? Bisexual? Pan? Neither, all?"

"Stop just listing things," Shane bites out. He rolls his shoulders too, and squeezes his eyes closed. Ilya honestly expects his eyelashes to leave an imprint in the soft skin just below; that's how hard he goes at it. When he opens them again, they're wide and all shiny. "I don't know."

Despite himself, Ilya grits his teeth. He's not great at these conversations. He starts walking up the bend almost automatically to distract himself from it. "Maybe you don't have to know."

Shane joins him, dragging his feet a little. "I dunno. It feels like I should know. I hate unanswered questions and, like, things I can't control or things I'm unsure about. And for the longest time—it's just… ugh. Whatever."

"No no, tell me. For the longest time what?"

"For the longest time, I thought I would just… I don't know, meet a girl and fall in love, like—like Hayden, I guess."

"Ughh, not Pike," Ilya moans.

"He's just the picture of a perfect life in the way that I, uh, always expected to have?"

"Is his life perfect to you?" Ilya asks, unable to hide the doubt he's feeling. Pike's life is good, sure. He's not a great hockey player—he isn't!—but there are certain things Ilya feels jealous of even though he knows that the idea of a nuclear family is old-fashioned. He struggles to see it as overrated, given… everything about his own unit that's never really been a unit at all.

Shane laughs. "Jesus, no. I mean, it's awesome what he's got, but… can you imagine having kids right now?"

"You are changing subjects," Ilya informs him calmly. "Is not about the kids, I think."

They let the street lead them further up and then they take a furtive right. The night's slowly been getting softer around the edges. All the dark shapes and corners are starting to blur and smudge into indigo, and there's a faint smell of flour and sugar wafting up the cobbled stones like a ghost. There must be a bakery nearby. It makes the world seem so much more awake. Even though he's wearing his hoodie, Ilya shivers—and he thinks it's the approaching new day that blows this cool air directly at him directly. The harshness is unwelcome and sobering.

Shane suddenly speaks again, like he's been mulling it over this whole time. "I think the idea of being… gay is just fucking terrifying. Because of hockey, and everything I've worked for, like, it's terrifying that all that could be taken away from me. Just because, what, I like men?"

"Yes," Ilya agrees. "It's scary."

It's subconscious when he catches Shane's hoodie somewhere near his elbow and tugs at it. The alley is empty, and who knows whether the next one will be; he might as well seize the opportunity. He pulls Shane into a hug. Wonders whether they've ever hugged like this before, but everything's kind of overlapping and losing its form in his mind.

Maybe they haven't. He'd remember this type of warmth and closeness, he thinks; especially the way Shane melts into him, hands fisting the fabric of his hoodie and bunching it up around his sides.

Ilya would love to touch everywhere. It's tempting to hide his hands underneath Shane's clothes one more time, but he'd love it just as much to cup the back of his head and hold him closer. Nothing is stopping him from carefully pressing a kiss into Shane's hair, either, or running his arms up and down his biceps. It's all equally alluring.

In the end, Ilya simply locks his arms behind Shane's back and hooks his chin over Shane's shoulder. "You think you have to know everything, Hollander," he mumbles. "But I promise it's okay to take time. Some answers are worth waiting for, maybe."

Sighing, Shane rests his cheek against Ilya. "You're, like, infuriatingly right," he huffs. "Probably."

"Biiig word," Ilya hums, digging his chin deeper. "And if you figure out that you are gay and anybody gives you shit, just call Hunter."

Shane laughs. Because they're so close, it reverberates through Ilya's body as well. "Why the fuck would I be calling Hunter?"

"Because everybody is afraid of big old scary dinosaurs, no?"

It gets Ilya another laugh. It's still a small collection of sounds, all things considered, but Ilya's happy to have heard more than a couple tonight. Tonight. Fuck. More like this morning.

Everything's bathing in shades definitely lighter than indigo when they pull apart. Like they can't give up on touching, they start up the street with their fingers interlocked. They have maybe thirty minutes left.

Perhaps nobody would guess so, but Ilya is very prone to being scared. You could even say that nobody would guess so because he takes so much care so as not to come across that way. He yells in locker rooms, boards people left and right once he's on the ice, always sings the loudest, veins threaten to pop. Scarcely anyone would think that it's just the outlet for the adrenaline rush inside him; the incessant fear of failure that demonstrates this way, and the little boy inside him that refuses to be found because terror is the only thing he ever sends out instead of a signal.

Ilya can't tell if Shane's hand is clammy, because his is, too. "How much time left?"

Shane looks to the sky like he's a fucking meteorologist. "Twenty-five minutes, maybe?"

Shit. That's even less than Ilya anticipated. He feels jittery, like he's just swallowed two gallons of coffee on an empty stomach.

"Not a lot," he says weakly.

"No," Shane agrees. A group of tourists appears where another alley joins this street and their fingers quickly disconnect. "Not a lot."

As the blue hues grow softer and lighter around them, Ilya wonders if he's the only one biting his tongue. It takes more and more, with each step, to not open his mouth and say, This is ridiculous, Hollander.

Ilya knows that at one point, the only option was to put a strict deadline on the night. Here's a palette, but you can only use this and this color, because otherwise you're going to make a fucking mess. He's not sure where that changed, and he's not sure he'd be able to pinpoint the exact moment even if he thought about it long and hard. All he knows is that he's gotten to know Shane more than he expected to. That, and there's also the nagging feeling in his chest he's so scared to name.

He trips over a crack in the pavement and curses. It's most likely the universe's way of smacking him up the head so he remembers to be honest with himself.

That feeling has been there for a lot longer, hasn't it?

But what does it matter if their clock is slowly ticking away twenty-four, twenty-three, maybe just twenty minutes now?

Why is there a timer on this? What are they, oven-baked chicken thighs?

Before Ilya can open his mouth and force himself to speak about any of it, a small square opens up around them and Shane slices through the quiet between them. "Holy shit, I know where we are!"

It's been hours since Shane's said anything like that, and Ilya smiles against his better judgment. "Impossible," he says with mockery.

"This is so fucking perfect, Rozanov. Come with me."

But it doesn't escape Ilya's attention that he doesn't grab his hand like he did back at the Eiffel Tower—he doesn't even reach for it, really. The only thing Ilya can do is follow blindly as their leisurely pace picks up.

It's pretty here; romantic. Wooden panels painted a heartsick red. Cafes and restaurants and souvenir shops hug every corner. They're all still closed, but there's the distant beeping of trucks as staff start unloading fresh produce, maybe—and Ilya will have none of it. Once all these places open, he'll be across the city. Merely wishing he was still here; not here; somewhere; nowhere. Not having this coffee, not having the fresh produce, not buying magnets for far-away fridges.

He's spiralling again, isn't he?

"Shane," he calls. "Slow down."

Like clockwork—ha!—Shane immediately brakes and turns around. Sunrise must be the way he's been walking. When Ilya looks at him, the sky seems to be opening up right behind him, like all the daylight grows out of his shoulder blades and vines through his hair. It's not the right moment and so he doesn't, but Ilya wishes he could take another fake photograph. Better yet, a real one.

"Yeah?"

"Just… slow down," Ilya repeats and forces his body into performing a shrug.

"Sorry," Shane offers sheepishly. "I just got excited. You'll see why." As if unaware of the time—of their time—Shane is still smiling. Just a small, simple thing, and it's all the worse for it.

Ilya lets himself be led without complaint from that point on. He's somewhat bitter to leave the square behind, but if it means one more narrow street to walk and a few more hazy places to look at, he can't really cry about it too hard.

He's never been to Paris before. This was established pretty early on, so he really doesn't know where they are. Still, before they even get to their final destination, Ilya can tell it feels… postcard-y here. In the literal sense, sure, but he has the inexplicable idea that if he tried to take it all in his hand and turn it around, there would be a love-letter on the other side, or maybe a short hello from somebody he hasn't seen in a very long time.

Eventually, a recognizable building comes into view with its white-domed head. That Ilya knows, even if it's his first time seeing it in person. It's not ugly and metallic like the Tower. From this distance, it looks almost pristine. The sunrise threatens to birth itself just behind it, but that only means that the side they're approaching still carries a few tones of grey secrecy and deep-blue moonlight. It must be the situation in combination with the stunning architecture that puts a cotton ball the size of a small island in the back of Ilya's throat.

"Sacré-Cœur," Shane says like he's presenting the main dish of a seven-course meal. Something really special and unforgettable, here, right on this plate in front of them. "It means 'sacred heart'."

Ilya thinks he read that somewhere, but doesn't have it in him to poke or mock. Like yes, Shane, duh. He merely nods, and his mouth may be slightly agape when they come nearer and the smaller cupolas come into view as well.

"I have a fun fact if you wanna hear it," Shane says proudly when they finally come around it to stand at the front. They're much less alone here—pairs and a couple of groups wanted to see the sunrise, giant cameras around their necks, and Ilya can't really blame them.

"Not really," he replies. His eyes catch on the few feet of stone already exposed to the sun. It's all doused in pinks and oranges. The dome looks like a peach.

"I'm actually gonna tell you anyway," Shane replies. They come to a standstill just below the steps leading inside. "So the entire basilica is made out of a very specific type of limestone."

"Hm, okay," Ilya mumbles. He has no idea what the fuck 'limestone' is.

"It's called travertine? Basically, it's still so white because it cleans itself when it touches water. So every rain shower is, like, an actual shower. It's a whole chemical… thing."

Ilya snorts. "A chemical thing," he imitates.

Shane blushes. It's been a while since Ilya last saw the color in those cheeks so prominently, and at least he can thank the sunrise for that if nothing else. He bites his lip. Bites the urge to ask for another fun fact back with it.

"You wanna go in?" Shane asks.

"No, I don't think so."

"There's a really beautiful mosaic—"

"Let's sit down," Ilya interrupts. He turns on his heel and looks towards the stairs upon stairs that roll out like a stone carpet below the basilica. It distracts from the city skyline—Ilya has to do a double take. Unlike the Sacré-Cœur, it doesn't look like any kind of fruit. There are pink undertones in the morning mist that's hovering above the streets, but somebody took a brush and struck it through with soft blue and purple. It looks like a painting. Ilya couldn't have seen anything more beautiful than this even if they'd broken into the Louvre in the middle of the night.

Shane continues to stare longingly at the church before he nods and turns towards the skyline as well. "Yeah, sure."

Their idealized anonymity dissipates when they sit down and early-morning chatter surrounds them. Ilya is sure, so sure that some of these people don't even want to be here. Hungry for sunrise pictures to show their family back home and they're only looking at it through the lens of their expensive cameras, and Ilya is being unfair, he knows he is, but what if it is one percent true? He'd die to stay here, and for the morning to stretch on, and all these people around them have no idea.

Unprompted, Shane pulls out his map. It's a sight for sore eyes; Ilya's almost forgotten about it.

And then Shane says: "We can complete the route together." His pen clicks.

Ilya feels himself fall inward and down all the way to his heels. He waves his hand, shying away from participating. "You do it," he replies. "I am no good at this map stuff."

Shane looks up at him from where he's sitting, mere inches of a gorge between their knees, and smiles. Like he's saying, You are good. Not even, You are good at anything you want to be good at. Just a plain statement in his eyes instead, nothing more.

Ilya looks away, scratching at the nape of his neck with nervous fingers. While Shane unfolds the map and splays it across his knees, he lets his eyes wander. He notices two people by the tourist telescope at the railing below them. He thinks about the now-familiar streets that they're seeing, and he thinks about himself walking there just hours ago.

He rolls his shoulders. He really needs to shake this sentimental funk, badly and immediately.

With a sigh, he shuffles closer to Shane. Propping himself up on one hand, palm against the cold step, he looks over at the map. Shane is just drawing a small wobbly heart in a patch of greenery.

"Aw, marking your first cigarette?" he asks jokingly.

"Nope, that's here." Shane points at a sad emoticon about a street and a half over. "I didn't know how to draw a puking one, so."

Ilya chuckles. "So this is, what? The hotel?"

"Yeah," Shane mumbles. "That's the hotel."

Ilya watches him fill out the heart with angry little streaks until there's not a millimeter of blank space left. Letting his gaze travel across the web of streets distantly feels like he's there again. Their tracks create a snake that curves there and back, but it looks soft and tame in this light. He looks at the markings. The lion, the park next to the Eiffel Tower, their kiss by the Seine, La Tourville, the bookshop, O'Neil. It all looks unreal, like it must have happened to somebody else, except they both know it didn't.

"You will keep the map, yes?" Ilya asks, voice thin.

"Yeah, obviously. I'll keep it forever."

"Okay." Mournfully, Ilya lets Shane fold it back up and tuck it away into the safety of his pocket. He should have bought one for himself, too.

"Do you wanna—"

Ilya cuts him off again. "What is your favorite hockey memory?"

Shane breathes out, a little taken aback. He briefly looks to the skyline like it's trying to usher him and urge him to get up and go. Scratches at his knee; looks down. Then his eyes lock into Ilya's, and his tired face dulls its sharpened edges. He's got bags under his eyes, Ilya notices. "Why?"

Ilya rolls his eyes. "Just tell me, Hollander."

"You probably want me to say something like… It was so cold in Regina during the International Prospect Cup, but…" he trails off, a sparkle in his eye.

"Sure. Or you can tell me the truth."

"Okay. I've been thinking about my billet family tonight—today—" scoff "—whatever. I don't know about my favorite memory, because a lot of them are just special, right? Like the first time you put on skates, or that moment when it becomes more than just a hobby, or your first good drills session, or, I don't know, getting into the NHL… But I was fucking terrified of billeting. New place, new people, new everything, and I was really lonely there, but the family took me in, the team was awesome, and it made me feel like…" Shane shakes his head.

Ilya knocks his knee with his knuckles. "Like what?"

"Like I could fit in even though I was different. You make me feel like that, too." Ilya musters up enough strength to simply hum in response. "You? What's your favorite?"

Before he thinks better of it, Ilya smirks. He takes the question and does with it what he really is good at—he waves an invisible wand and makes it into a joke. "It was soooo cold in Regina during the International Prospect Cup…"

With a disbelieving scoff, Shane gives Ilya a death glare. He looks far too cute with an upset little frown. "No! You have to share something real, too."

"Yes, okay, fine. So boring." That just gets him an eyeroll. "When I got first overall pick, I think."

"I can't believe you're going to rub that in my face right now."

"Nono, not because of you. I wanted it very badly, and beating you was… a nice bonus, but I needed it. I needed it to get out of Russia. And then I got it. My brother and my father… Things are not perfect, but it's better like this for me. Is that bad?"

"No," Shane murmurs. Even though they're not touching—not their knees, not their shoulders, not even an idle piece of fabric against another—there's something in his face that makes Ilya feel hugged. "It's really not, Ilya."

"When they announced it, you can't imagine the…" Ilya trails off, unable to come up with the proper vocabulary. He motions to his chest, hand like a claw squeezing just outside his sternum, and then he has to look away. In less than a week, he'll be back in Russia. His brother and his father will become so much more prominent for a brief period of time, but no matter how short he tries to make his Moscow visits, they're still too long.

But then again, not long enough. Never.

They're long and it takes Ilya months before he can close his eyes and feels it all blur. They're short and it takes him months to stop feeling guilty about it.

He tries to blink away the tears that have ambushed him, but one escapes and rolls down. He doesn't know why or how, but Shane's right there. His thumb wipes it away so gently and easily like he's been doing it for years.

"Sorry," Ilya offers, hating the way his voice cracks on the word. "I'm ruining the last part."

It takes Shane a beat to answer. "No, you're so not."

Ilya sniffs and rubs his nose. "Has the sun risen, then?" he asks somewhat morosely. It only comes across as a half-joke, but it feels like he's reading a sentence from an English textbook the whole way through.

"Yeah, I think so. Just about, so… Ten minutes left?"

"Fuck, Hollander." Despite himself, and despite how much he wants to look at Shane, Ilya turns his head farther to the side.

Shane doesn't echo the sentiment. In fact, he doesn't say anything at all—at least at first. All he does is shuffle closer. His weight leans and rests against Ilya's side. Pressed together like this, Ilya can tell that they're both tense. Tense about the sudden daylight, tense about what it means, tense with the weariness of staying awake for so long. The world is slowly starting to take on that shimmery quality of sleep deprivation; Ilya honestly doesn't know how to get through the rest of the day.

"Are we being stupid?" Shane asks quietly. "Should we just…?"

Ilya sighs. Should they what, though? Spend the summer at Hollander's brand-new cottage? Stay in Paris forever? Quit hockey while they're at it? Should they—or rather, could they—forget who they are for real this time? Or should they try and juggle something he's too scared to call a relationship? Should they call it a relationship? Should, should. Should not.

Keeping it all inside, he shrugs. "Yes and no, probably. This night was..."

"Perfect. So we wanna keep it going."

"Yes, exactly."

"But if we keep it going, it's not gonna be perfect anymore."

Ilya's teeth hurt because he clenches his jaw so hard, but at least he finally turns back around to face Shane again. "It will probably suck. I am in Boston, you are in Montreal…"

"And all the reporters still think we want to kill each other, so it's not like we'll be able to ever go anywhere."

"Yes, it would be hotel rooms and it is already hotel rooms."

"Like, would you rather have one perfect fucking night, like a fairytale night, and then go back to how things were and take what you can get even if it's not much, or would you rather fuck that night up with real life?"

Ilya rests his own cheek against his shoulder. He can't help but let the words pull at the corner of his mouth and shape it into a grin. "You really think this night was perfect, Shane?"

"Yeah. Perfect and magical." His eyes linger on Ilya's face for a moment longer before they flitter away. Ilya's still looking at him while he takes in the horizon. There's such hunger in his face; like he'd like to try and swallow the skyline whole. "Thank you for doing this with me. I forgot how beautiful Paris was, to be honest."

"Ah, I think is my charm that makes it so beautiful," Ilya taunts. "You're welcome."

Shane just shakes his head. He pulls his knees one stair up so they're closer to his chest, and leans his arms over it. When he looks to Ilya, half of his face is hidden in the folds of his hoodie. His freckles appear unusually stark against the backdrop of his face, stretched by all the hours he's been awake.

This time, when they settle into silence, it feels strangely final. It makes Ilya consider again whether they should have talked more. But he knows—he knows he's just planting regret into something they've already called perfect, and he knows it's nothing but a useless effort. It was perfect. Quiet or loud, it was perfect.

"I know it's late now," Shane says, breaking that silence, "but I wanna do one more thing. Something stupid and quick, maybe. There's, like, an old-fashioned carousel all the way down. Maybe we could do that. It would definitely be stupid."

"Upside-down rollercoasters or nothing, Hollander," Ilya argues. "I have a stupid idea. Come with me."

He can practically hear his knees creak when he gets up from the stairs. Once more, his legs feel like lead, but it's a different kind of lead—heavy, sure, but it's mostly just a call for rest. Shane looks equally willing-but-unwilling when he follows suit.

There are fewer and fewer people as they make their way down and take a narrow set of stairs on the side. Everybody wants the best view, and so the lower sections yawn empty. Well, save for the birds flying low in the hopes of snatching something, somewhere, before the tourist buzz becomes too busy and loud. Only one elderly couple is making a slow walk out of crossing from one side to the other.

"We can call this one more sight, yes?" Ilya suggests when he sits down again. These steps are a little wider and the city seems a bit closer.

"Barely," Shane mumbles but concedes by sitting down next to him.

Ilya hates it, but he makes himself do one more perimeter check. Making sure that they're still alone, he shuffles and shuffles until Shane understands his intention and makes space. Maybe too easily, Ilya props his legs up and lays his head in Shane's lap. The only horizon now is the brightening sky, and Shane is… the sun. He's always been the fucking sun.

Ilya feels how cautious Shane's fingers are when they softly start running through Ilya's messy hair. "Say something in Russian again," he whispers down towards him.

Ilya gulps. Visibly, for sure, given how Shane's eyes jump from his face to his throat. The fingers of his other hand reach out and hover just above Ilya's chest for a moment.

Ilya stills. His first instinct is to jerk away; to sit up and retreat into himself. But then he looks at the precise line of Shane's jaw and the curl of his lashes, and he tells himself to be stay. When Shane eventually closes his fist around the cross on Ilya's necklace, it's just another thing that happens. The universe doesn't explode, the stone of the steps doesn't crack, Ilya doesn't slip from Shane's lap into the depths of Hell. It feels, only, as if everything has been shared. Everything aside from one thing.

"Please," Shane adds.

Reluctantly, Ilya takes a breath. Opens his mouth. "Я люблю тебя," he whispers back. Word to word, he builds it with such care. "Now say something in French."

They lock eyes again. It must be past six now; they're breaking their own deal already. It's later.

Shane leans in closer, lips in a thin line of fear. He licks them like he's trying to lick the feeling away. "Je t'aime," he breathes. He's trembling when he presses a small kiss between Ilya's brows. "Please don't cry. I'll cry too if you do."

"No, of course not," Ilya agrees just as another tear breaks free and rolls somewhere into his hair.

Even though most of Ilya's view is Shane's face, the fact that the day has started is undeniable. The world is getting noisy again, plunging them both into a reality with cars and heels going clack-clack and people laughing and a game in a few hours and who knows how many missed notifications and, eventually, at the beginning of the next month, a bank statement that will say O'Neil and Trocadéro and RATP and Île-de-France and whatnot.

A reality where Ilya will have to look at it in Moscow. A reality where Paris doesn't seem so real at all.

"Should we—" he starts.

"Just one more minute," Shane cuts in, eyes watery and pleading.

"You're gonna miss practice," Ilya tells him softly.

Shane's fingers loosen in Ilya's hair and around his necklace. They retreat, but their return is swift. They're tracing Ilya's cheeks, his nose, the arch of his brow. "I know."

In the end—and it takes more than one more minute to reach that end—they take a taxi together. Neither of them can quite leave Montmartre alone, even though they understand the risk of being recognized. It's not as though they speak at all during the drive, each caught in their own world and staring out the window. Their pinkies rest interlocked between them in secret, but they could be strangers otherwise.

And then it's over, of course. The Paris Marriott Rive Gauche hotel looks exactly as it did when they left it just over twelve hours ago. Greenery, a street that stretches on, cars rushing past.

They come to a stop in front of the entrance and exchange a look.

"See you next season, Hollander," Ilya offers.

"We're literally playing the game tonight—"

"Come on, Shane. You know what I mean, yes?"

He means a summer apart. He means the start of the NHL season; he means secret texts between Jane and Lily; he means spending their time waiting for a hotel room number, or the click of the lock on the back door of Shane's Montreal apartment building. Any and all and thank you for it.

Shane nods. His smile is suddenly sad; sad and lonely. "Yeah. See you next season, Rozanov."

Shane turns on his heel so quickly that Ilya doesn't get a chance to say anything else. The only thing he can do is watch as it happens—Shane's back as it retreats, shoulders pulled up to his ears like he's holding a grenade inside his ribcage.

Ilya rubs at his eyes, but there are still tears in them when he starts down the sidewalk in search of a pack of cigarettes.

He wonders what time it is, but it doesn't really matter anymore, does it?

THE END OF THEIR ROUTE / DALIDA

Chapter End Notes

one last time: trivia and fact-checking for this chapter 🩵

- the opening line is a slight rewrite by yours truly, taken from the russian folktale the sun, the moon and voron voronovich (crow crowson, literally).

- i found shane's little fun fact here and there are 17 more if you want them :)

- dalida is a HUGE icon in france, especially in lgbtq+ circles, and her life ended like ilya's mom's. apparently nothing i use in this fic can be just a random quirky coincidence, it must have a deeper meaning i hadn't heard of before.

- fancy seeing the sunrise just like the boys did? i watched this video for inspiration. :))

- important to note that i am an absolute mess about this lol

OF IMPORT: pls remember the HEA tag and PLEASE know that i do *not* fool around with that. if it says HEA, it means HEA. thank u, love u, go drink some water, roll those shoulders, relax ur jaw. <3

if you're enjoying this, please do leave a comment/kudo if you have the time and/or energy, i appreciate it so much. emoji comments included! ♥

i'm on threads or on tumblr! i'd love to see you there. ♥

Chapter 13: ∞

Chapter Notes

*takes a deep breath* hi. thank you so so so so so much for being here. ♥

Roughly four and a half hours of sleep doesn't sound like a lot, but once you think about it in minutes, it becomes much less troublesome. That's two hundred and seventy. It gets even better if you consider seconds—sixteen thousand and two hundred. Just don't ever start thinking about it in the context of 'the past forty-eight hours'—focus on the positives.

Shane knows he's survived on less than sixteen thousand and two hundred seconds of sleep. He's still certain that he didn't get more than a wink the night before his first NHL game, and that was so much more important.

"You clean up well," he tells his suit-wearing reflection in the mirror. "You can do this, dude."

Which, of course, reminds him of a different suit and a different hotel room. It reminds him of Ilya.

(8 AM. Shane bodies his way through the crowded hotel lobby to get to the bus on time. Automatically, his eyes jump from face to face in search of a familiar pair. Can't find it. It takes him a shamefully long moment to realize that Ilya is no longer within a touching distance, but sitting on a different bus, surrounded by different people, and that Shane can only hope he's feeling equally lost.

8 AM, less than two hours since they parted ways at the main entrance, and Shane feels like a limb is missing. If he tries to tell himself it's fine—it's just existing next to someone so intensely for so many hours, it will go away if he gives it a chance to—he fails.)

Shane looks away from that reflection. He mostly doesn't know who the fuck he's even looking at. What's there beyond the suit and the tired eyes and the nick just below his chin because he was trying to shave sleep-deprived?

It's hard to answer.

He looks to the green curtains instead, and to the open suitcase on the bed. His flight out of Paris is scheduled for 6:15 AM. He's not the biggest fan of the early-morning liminal space of an airport, but at least it gives him a great excuse to leave the gala early. Fielding questions about the exhibition game is the last thing he wants to do.

But then again, thinking about what he would like to do is equally as traitorous; equally as risky.

(10 AM. Friendly terms are established very early on in the practice session. The stakes are nonexistent at best and very low at worst. A player from the EHL yells, Hollander, what the fuck! in a Norwegian accent after a high-sticking hiccup, but it's good-humored. Shane memorizes his name. Gulbranssen. He's very young and very good, and possibly the only one who's got something riding on this.

10 AM and Shane is only half-present at the arena. He's thinking about the other arena; the other team; the other team's Captain. About how he should be—wants to be—there. About how they could have had something, or maybe had something, and now what?)

With a sigh, Shane goes to the door. He waits with his hand on the handle, as if expecting a knock. His mind is full of things that have nothing to do with the game or with the gala unfolding downstairs. Where was he this time yesterday? What were they doing at almost ten o'clock? Sharing opera plots on a bench, or sitting at La Tourville already?

Shane shakes his head, hoping to clear it.

An invisible thread pulls at his vertebrae one by one until he turns around. Their map is not in the suitcase yet. It's been touched by his nervous fingers a hundred times, but he hasn't been able to decide what to do with it. Put it in the folds of his clothes so it doesn't crease? It would be out of sight, though. Put it in his backpack? Maybe then it would be too… there.

Later, he thinks. I can deal with this later.

As if he's got a stellar track record when it comes to doing that.

(Noon. Over lunch, Shane finally looks at his phone. He swipes away notifications and messages, including the joyous Welcome to France!, in search of one particular name—which, of course, never graces the screen. He understands; he can't bring himself to open up the text chain with Lily, either.

Noon makes Shane feel so alone.)

It's ten when he finally convinces his body to carry him downstairs.

The good thing about arriving fashionably late to a party is that everybody's already mingling, and if you manage to pass by unnoticed, you will also pass by unbothered.

A group of Shane's teammates from today's game is being loud on the left, so he skirts to the right. He hardly knows anybody else here, save for a few guys from the opposing team. Navigating the lounge area, loud bass pierces Shane's ears. He's looking for a familiar set of golden curls, be it gelled back or let loose. He's only gotten to see them when they peeked from underneath his helmet, slick with sweat. Five minutes of joint ice time.

They're nowhere to be seen. Neither is the silhouette… the shape of the body Shane's come to recognize, and maybe he'd hear the voice ringing out if it wasn't for the stupid bass.

Is it possible that Ilya isn't here?

"Shane Hollander!"

Shane can feel his face drain completely at the voice of the Voyageurs' coach. The bass suddenly seems to halt, one tone echoing back and forth and back and forth, not unlike Shane's blood rushing like a stream.

His fingers flex with nerves, but they're really looking for a hand to hold.

"Coach Theriault," Shane grits out, forcing his mouth into a smile. You're good at this, he reminds himself. You're good at pretending. "Didn't know you were here."

"Just a pit-stop on my way to Saint-Tropez, actually! You ever been to the French Riviera?"

"Can't say I have, sir."

"Ha! Well, win us the Cup next year," he says like a parent whose love is nothing if not conditional, "and I might just invite you along."

Polite laugh. Nod; tilt head to the side in understanding. Be in on the joke. "I'd be thrilled," Shane says on the tail-end of a polite laugh, forgetting to un-tilt; forgetting to be in on the joke.

(1 PM. Coming into his room feels like retreating back to the drawing board. All the smells—the fresh linen, the expensive detergent—coagulate into a mist that drags up Shane's nose with great effort. The sheets are too white. Too rough, too; so rough that Shane wouldn't be able to fall asleep on them if he weren't so fucking tired.

1 PM and he falls asleep as he is, clothes and all. He dreams of nothing.)

Shane Hollander excuses himself and escapes the unexpected scrutiny. He shrinks back down into Shane by the time he's approaching the bar. Neither Ilya or Jérôme are present. Being here—and being here alone—feels like he is lost somewhere. Be it the depth of the woods or the busy streets of a city he's never been to before. The where is really not so important, especially compared to the feeling. He finds it very difficult to combat.

Soon enough, moving in a desperate pattern around the luxurious and open area, it starts to feel like Shane is dodging bullets.

He's also completely misplaced the real reason for his being here. Everything seems to concentrate on finding Ilya in the crowd. It's quite possible that he's coming across as a child running through a supermarket aisle looking for his parents, but he doesn't know how to stop himself.

It could be the lack of sleep. Lack only leads to more lack—the control he's used to projecting is seeping away. What's left is a bland-tasting liquid. All Shane can think about is this time yesterday; all he can do is skitter around, bug-like, looking.

This is exactly what I was doing the night I won Rookie of the Year, Shane suddenly realizes, and look at how that turned out. Look at how little has changed.

He has changed plenty, though.

Once he sets his mind to it, it's not so hard to sneak out of the gala and aim for the reception. Its lights are bright and blinding compared to the muted, warm tones of the lounge, and Shane has to squint to read the receptionist's nametag. The tall white woman has long, straightened hair that partially covers it, but he manages to decipher the name Charlotte. She's drawn a small flower next to it, and there's a blue-pink-white pin underneath.

Shane clears his throat, somehow feeling safer about what he wants to ask.

Charlotte smiles, eyes crinkling. "Oui, Monsieur Hollander?"

"Uh, would it be possible to—to give me Ilya Rozanov's room number?" he asks. His heart is the smallest bird known to man.

"Ah." She presses her lips together, sucking her teeth, and shakes her head. "Unfortunately, no. That is against our policy."

Shane can feel his shoulders slump. "Yeah, that makes sense. Well. Bonne nuit, Charlotte."

His face must be less of a mask than he'd like to think—Charlotte looks him up and down, and sighs. "We can try calling him, if you would like?"

(4 PM. Shane wakes up, except it feels like part of him is still asleep. And another part of him is still up around Montmartre. He's spliced and sliced and cut-through so many times over that he doesn't know how to ground himself in the here, much less the now. He takes another small cat-nap on the bus to the arena, and Gulbranssen has to shake him awake in the locker room, too.

4 PM means nothing until Shane gets on the ice and finally, his eyes land on Ilya, his Ilya, and it finally dawns on him: this distance, this silence, this see-you-next-season are the only things ruining something perfect.)

The lobby is too busy. Music and loud chatter and the clinking of glasses are a too-loud cacophony. Even though Shane strains his ears, he can't hear whether it's ringing, or if there's a busy signal, or if Ilya's just, just, just about to pick up.

Charlotte's smile is a little strained now, too. The longer it goes on, the clearer it is that Ilya isn't in his room.

"Très désolé," Charlotte says in the end, when she finally hangs up. "Do you wish to leave a message for him?"

Shane shakes his head. He can't speak. His teeth are clamping around his inner cheeks to stop him from ranting. Has he checked out? he wants to ask. Is he still here? Has he said anything? When did he leave? Have you seen him?

It's rude, but he leaves the reception with nothing but an awkward tap on its cold marble surface. He passes underneath the LIFTS - ASCENSEURS sign and slips into the elevator, blessedly alone.

Not that he's aware of any of it. He's not even aware of chewing his nail down to the bone until he catches himself doing it in the reflection. His face looks all smudged and wrong through multiple sets of fingerprints on the thick mirror, but he quickly pulls his hand away and presses it against his stomach. He leans against the side and looks away. One day and he's already tired of looking at himself in mirrors. He wants somebody else to look at him instead.

Ilya could be on a plane right now. Shane tries to rake his brain for any discussion of schedules and flights, but he comes up empty. It's barely been twenty-four hours and he remembers so little already—but then again, that's over eighty-six thousand seconds.

Ilya could be on a plane. Back to Boston before returning to Russia? Or, a sinister, horrible little voice chirps, maybe that wasn't the plan at all. Maybe he's running from you.

It's sinister and horrible because it could be true. Wouldn't be the first time, either.

(6 PM. Puck drop. What would be their one and only face-off. Grinning through mouth guards, Ilya's skin taut and tired against the backdrop of the rink, but elated; excited. No chirps.

6 PM. The exhibition game starts and Ilya checks Shane into the boards not five minutes in, laughing, saying, "Hollander, I am so tired!" and Shane is there, ribs stretching against the hard material—a pleasant hum of hurt—and unable to answer.

6 PM and onwards puts a metallic taste in Shane's mouth that isn't blood. It's Rozanov, I'm tired too, tired of pretending I don't want this for the rest of my life, even though I'm very young and planning to live for very long.)

When the elevator dings and rolls its doors open onto the carpeted hallway, it breaks Shane's stupor. He's plotting and planning. Fuck silence—he's going to shoot off a text. And if that text is met with nothing, he'll shoot off another. His refusal to settle for another limbo is final. If texts don't work, Shane's booking a fucking flight to Moscow.

He takes who-knows-how-many steps before he notices a bundle of dark clothes at the end of the long row of hotel room doors.

Shane halts. The dark bundle is right in front of his hotel room door.

The dark bundle is a person sitting all criss-cross-applesauce. Shane speeds up, shoes grazing the carpet. A halo of curls comes into view, not-slicked-back, let-loose, pressed against the wall. The closer he is, the more it feels like he's zooming in on a picture. There is a pair of closed eyes sitting under relaxed brows, the prominent mole, the slope of a nose dipping over into a cupid's bow.

"What the fuck, Rozanov?" Shane exclaims, his voice dangerously teetering on the edge of giddy. "What are you doing here?"

Ilya snort-snores through his slightly parted lips and his eyes shoot open. Like this carpeted floor is the most comfortable place he's ever slept, his head lolls to the side at first. Then he straightens himself up, mouth stretching into a smile that's a bit stupid and plenty excited.

"Sleeping," Ilya answers lazily.

Shane snickers. "On the floor."

"Da, yes. Great French carpets."

"You're an idiot." Shane takes one more step and then reaches out, palm open and inviting and only a little bit clammy.

"I told you I was tired," is all that Ilya offers before sliding his hand into Shane's. He gets up with a huff.

For all the exhaustion written across his face, once they're on the same eye level, Ilya looks infuriatingly good. This clad-in-black style—black jeans, black sweater, black collar of a shirt peeking out—looks wonderous against every feature. It sharpens them like you'd sharpen the line of a sculpture; not like you would a knife.

Once again, Shane finds himself looking up. "There's a whole gala going on down there, you know?"

"Yes, I know, Shane." Ilya's fingers stay put in Shane's grip. "Are they missing me?"

Shane looks down, but the tips of his shoes are so much less interesting than Ilya. His eyes flicker back up. Even though they're caught in the middle of an impersonal hotel hallway and he is painfully aware of the formalness of his slacks, Shane feels like he's standing by the Tower again, or sitting down for not-a-date, or running down the street for a chance to dance.

He bites his lip. "I was missing you, I guess."

Ilya's exhale is quiet, but Shane sees it. It starts in Ilya's brows and, shortly after, continues in his throat as he gulps. Shane tracks the movement, luxuriating in the sudden uncurling of his shoulders.

"Hmm, I was missing you, too," Ilya admits.

"Really?"

Ilya's cheeks color in real time. He tugs at Shane's hand as if begging him to shut up. "Is not a big deal, Hollander," he says just like he did last night—well, this morning—and he's wrong again, too. It is a big deal. It's so big that it kicks down the fence, the wall, the barbed wire Shane's been so scared to approach.

Shane is so close to kissing Ilya right there. So close, in fact, that you couldn't pinch a grain of salt in there if you tried to measure it with your fingers.

"How did you get my room number?" he asks instead. Warmth is spilling across his chest at a staggering speed.

Ilya shrugs. "I asked reception."

"What!" Shane cries out. "But the woman very clearly—!"

"What woman? Guy, three buckets tall, I said, Can you please give me room number for Shane Hollander, he said, Anything for the best hockey player in the world, here you go, Monsieur Rozanov, so…"

"But…" Shane trails off. Squints. Charlotte wasn't the only one taking care of the reception desk, but there was definitely no guy 'three buckets tall' to be seen anywhere. "When was this?"

"Let's see," Ilya starts. He lets his body fall back and rest against the wall. His eyes are doing the thing again where they're fake-looking for an answer he doesn't want to share somewhere in the ether, and the slight blush coloring his cheeks is their little exclamation point. "We got to the hotel, you went inside, I went to buy cigarettes…"

"Ilya."

"And right after that," he finally finishes.

First thing in the morning. Ilya asked for Shane's room number first thing in the morning. Shame singes the tips of Shane's ears until they turn red. Here he was, thinking Ilya a flight risk, and all the while— Before Shane ever even realized that they could—

"Come inside," he mumbles apologetically. Like he's saying sorry for doing all this out in the open, when in reality, he's been yearning for another second of privacy so much it hurts.

Ilya nods.

The second Shane's key card unlocks the door, the fragile bubble around them bursts and turns into frantic steps. They both rush through the door, they both rush to close it, they both rush to turn around, they both rush to kiss each other.

This will take a while to change, Shane knows—if Ilya wants the same thing. Should they decide to continue their night indefinitely; should they really accept that this is something they must keep, it will take a long time to undo years of secret meetings.

Or, well, maybe not undo. It's not as though Shane would like to turn back time and pretend to start again. He'll keep all the hotel encounters. He'll keep the insult of a back door stairwell. Fuck, he'll keep Sochi and its aftermath—so long as it ends in something different eventually. (He thinks, again, about that brand-new bed at his cottage, and how it's real, now; that small, shy idea that it would never know Shane's body alone, only as it exists next to Ilya's.)

"Shane—"

"Ilya," he echoes when their mouths part hastily. "When we said we shouldn't ruin this, maybe…"

"I went out after the game," Ilya interrupts. Shane's noticed that he does that a lot, and it's irritating, and he's endeared by it. "To buy my own map."

"Your own map?" Shane asks quietly. It's barely above a whisper when he finally squeezes it out. He blinks and blinks again, hating the prickle of tears in the corners of his eyes. It's just that he's so tired. It's just that he hasn't slept much. It's just that Ilya's bought his own map.

"And I don't remember stupid French street names and boring places, so I need you to help me. Do our twelve-hour-long snake with me, Hollander."

Shane clears his throat. "I can do that," he manages.

"Good."

"I marked some places we… we never saw. The Louvre, the Luxembourg Gardens? And there's this bridge where people put locks—"

(—9 PM and Shane is looking up romantic Paris locations on the bus back to the hotel like he wants his hurt to re-angle itself and maybe hurt less, or more but different—)

"Jason Bourne bridge," Ilya sighs. "Very famous movies in Russia a few years ago. Yes. I know the bridge."

"Very famous in Russia," Shane repeats in disbelief.

"And I looked it up today. Whatever."

"Ilya," Shane says again, trying to emphasize his urgency. He's feeling so many things, and he wishes he knew how to say them.

There's this fear inside him. Shane doesn't know if it's been there his whole life, but it's definitely been there a long time. It's this paranoid presumption that he's going to say the wrong thing, or that people are going to read his cautious silence as disinterest, or lack of courage. The truth is so much simpler: Shane simply doesn't know what to name those feelings, or how to verbalize his thoughts. It's fucking infuriating.

"We can ruin the night," Ilya says instead, putting it crudely but expressing exactly what Shane needed to express.

"If we do this, we're so going to ruin the night," he agrees. "We're going to fight and not understand each other and I'm going to kill you on the ice every time and you're going to drive me mad."

"You're going to drive me mad," Ilya argues. His face is still flushed. "But maybe that's okay, yes?"

Shane uses his hands to say what he can't. He mirrors Ilya's signature move: he brings his palm up to one burning cheek and cups it, thumb hooked under Ilya's chin. "I said I loved you this morning," he murmurs instead of agreeing. Or maybe it is his way of agreeing.

"I know," Ilya murmurs back. Their faces are so close together that Shane can feel the hot breath hitting him. "I said I loved you in Russian."

Ilya's face blurs as Shane's eyes fill up again. He can't find it in him to feel humiliated by it; not with Ilya's doing the same.

"I didn't know," Shane admits.

Ilya rests his forehead against Shane's. "We will not ruin it," he says. "Fuck up, maybe. But I don't think we will ruin it. Not after last night."

"No," Shane agrees again. They're already contradicting each other, but they've always been like that, haven't they? Balancing each other out, Shane turning Ilya upside-down for each time Ilya turns Shane inside-out. "No, we won't ruin it."

Chapter End Notes

wow. the end, huh.

i can't really express how grateful i am to every single person who's read / left kudos / left a comment on this. i don't think i have the words. but i do hope that you could feel the love and passion i tried to put into this and that you found parts of it enjoyable in turn. i really genuinely love you all and i'm so happy i got to remember your usernames and pfps and spend the summer with you. anddddd thank you so so so much for reading. ♥ / cries and cries and cries.

what's next?

i like to include a little 'hey, i'm not disappearing, i'm always plotting 75 others things' note at the end of a wip, so here's a short overview of 'up next' 😂
1. i'm doing a fic exchange that i'll be posting sometime next week! i can't say anything else about it since it's a secret for now, but it's a bit of a weirdo, that one. :))
2. i'm posting my reverse bang at the beginning of september! canon-compliant (but post-canon) married hollanov, 9.000 words of almost-retired boys <3
3. i will be posting SMUT. i am so EXCITED.
4. next wip is going to be a full AU that i've been thinking about since early may. somebody's a single dad! yay! :)

if you enjoyed this last bit, please do leave a comment/kudo if you have the time and/or energy, i appreciate it so much. emoji comments included! ♥

i'm on threads or on tumblr! i'd love to see you there. ♥

and if you want to be notified about the ~next thing~, mayhaps you could click through to my profile and hit subscribe there? only if you wanna. <3

YAY I LOVE YOU ALL OKAY THANK YOU BYEEEEE TALK TO YOU SOON! ♥

Works inspired by this one

cover for moon chasers by gravollet

Cover Art inspired by "Moonchasers" by ToTheVerge by sk_inspired (skargasm), skargasm